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*'  THKIR    OITSTRKTCHKD    HANDS    WKRK    CLASPKD    TOGETHER    OVER   THE    STREAM.' 


SHANDON  BELLS 


:X  2fot)el 


BY 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

AUTHOR    OF   "a    PRINCESS    OF   THULE        "MACLEOD    OF    DARE        "MADCAP    VIOLET 
"that    BEAUTIFUL    WRETCH"    "  SUSKISE  "    ETC.,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER   k  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 
1883     ^gO 


WILLIAM  BLACK'S  NOVELS. 


LIBRARY  EDITION. 

SHANDON  BELLS.    Illustrated.    12nio,  Cloth,  fl  25. 

THAT  BEAUTIFUL  WRETCH.     Illustrated.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

SUNRISE.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

MACLEOD  OF  DARE.     Illustrated.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

GREEN    PASTURES  AND   PICCADILLY.      12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

MADCAP  VIOLET.     12mo,  Cloth.  $1  25. 

THREE  FEATHERS.     Illustrated.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

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A  PRINCESS  OF  THULE.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

IN  SILK  ATTIRE.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

KILMENY.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

THE  5TR.VNGE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  PHAETON.      12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

WHITE  WINGS.     Illustrated.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 


CHEAP  EDITION,  IN  PAPER  COVERS. 

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Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Any  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
part  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


CONTENTS. 


OHAPTEK  PAGE 

I.  "over  running  water" 1 

II.   A  HIGH  CONCLAVE 13 

in.    A  FIRST  CAST 29 

IV.    A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE 36 

V.    THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  CAREER 48 

VI.   A  FIRST  CHECK 60 

VII.    ' '  WHEN  ALL  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG" 71 

VIII.    IN  LONDON  AGAIN 87 

IX.    IN  STRAITS 103 

X.    NEW  FRIENDS 112 

XI.    A  DISCLOSURE 125 

XII.    A  GO-BETWEEN 131 

XIII.  NEIGHBORS 142 

XIV.  TWO  LETTERS 152 

XV.   A  SYMPOSIUM 161 

XVI.    A  MORNING  WALK  AND  OTHER  MATTERS 177 

XVII.    AN  APPARITION 186 

XVIII.    STORM  AND   CALM 198 

XIX.   A  PROSPECT 225 

XX.    SOME  CORRESPONDENCE 235 

XXI.    IMAGININGS 254 

XXII.    THE  REVELATION 266 

XXIII.  "  SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,  O  GELIEBTE  !" 273 

XXIV.  ALONE 288 

XXV.   GLIMMERINGS 303 

XXVX.    TO  THE  RESCUE 310 

XXVII.    AT  BOAT  OP  GARRY 319 

XXVIII.    THE    "  BLACK  SWAN" 333 

XXIX.    PLANS  AND  DREAMS 346 

XXX.   ^HE  BOOK 363 

XXXI.    IN  THE  EAST 373 

XXXII.    IN  A  GALLERY 383 

XXXIII.    AT   INISHEEN 394 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"their  outstretched  hands  were  clasp- 
ed TOGETHER  OVER  THE  STREAM" FvOfltispiece. 

"he  aimed  A  BLOW  AT  THE  BACK  OF  THE 
fellow's     head    with     his    stout    OAK 

staff" To  face  Page    36 

'"but    do  I  COMPLAIN?'   SAID  THE  OTHER"..  "  100 

"  GOOD-BY,  AUNTIE  DEAR!" "  122 

"her    shriek    of    fear    WHEN    HE    HAULED  ^ 

IN    FOR    HER    A    GASPING   AND    FLOPPING 

gurnard" "  132 

"he  walked  into  the  dining-room  after 

THE  TWO  ladies" "  164 

"see  was  seated  on  the  hearth-rug  be- 
fore THE  fire,  her  head  JUST  TOUCH- 
ING HIS  knee" "  220 

"ROSS  READ  THE  LETTER  THROUGH  DELIB- 
ERATELY"      "  248 

"THERE    WAS    A    SLACKENING    OF    THE    LINE, 

AND   HE  SAW  A  BLUE  AND  WHITE  THING 

FLASHING  IN  THE  AIR"    "  298 

"these      two,     THEN,     WERE      PRACTICALLY 

ALONE    IN    THIS    SHINING,  SILENT    WORLD 

OP  SKY   AND  sea" "  336 

"she  did  not  SPEAK;   BUT  SHE  PLACED  HER 

HAND    OVER   HIS    HAND    THAT    HELD   HER 

wrist" "  380 

"they    TURNED    AND    FOUND    BEFORE    THEM 

MR.   SYDENHAM    HIMSELF,  AND    ALSO    HIS 

PRETTY  WIFE" "  388 


SHANDON    BELLS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OVER  RUNNING  WATER. 


So  still  this  night  was.  The  white  moonlight  lay  over  the 
sleeping  world ;  the  Atlantic  was  calm ;  the  little  harbor  town 
of  Inisheen,  with  all  its  picturesque  squalor  of  quays  and 
creeks  and  stranded  boats,  had  gone  to  rest ;  and  here,  high  up 
in  this  inland  glen  (from  which  the  sea  was  visible  only  as  a 
sharp  line  of  silver  at  the  horizon),  among  the  felled  trees  and 
the  brush-wood,  there  was  no  sound  save  the  continuous  "hush 
— sh — sli"  of  the  streamlet  far  below  in  the  darkness.  Nor  was 
there  any  sign  of  life  in  this  open  glade — not  even  a  rabbit  out 
browsing  on  the  dew-wet  grass,  or  a  curlew  crossing  the  clear 
depths  of  the  blue-gray  sky  in  its  flight  from  the  moor  to  the 
shore.  Only  the  moonlight  shining  calm  and  still  on  the  wil- 
derness of  bramble  and  bracken  and  furze,  and  here  and  there 
on  the  white  stump  of  a  felled  beech  or  ash;  and  always  the 
murmur,  down  below,  of  the  unseen  rivulet  on  its  way  to  the 
Blackwater  and  the  sea. 

But  by-and-by,  along  the  road  over  there,  that  was  barred 
across  by  the  shadows  of  some  tall  elms,  two  people  came 
slowly  walking,  and  the  cheerful  sound  of  their  speaking  was 
clear  in  the  stillness. 

"The  more  I  think  of  it," said  one  of  them,  who  was  a  very 
pretty,  slightly  formed  young  lady,  with  eyes  as  black  as  the 
sloe,  a  mouth  that  could  assume  a  most  piquant  expression, 
and  a  voice  that  was  soft  and  musical  and  laughing — "the 
more  I  think  of  it,  this  seems  the  most  extraordinary  escapade 

1 


2  SHANDON  BELLS. 

I  ever  entered  upon.  Altogether  a  most  decorous  proceeding ! 
I  suppose  by  this  time  eveiy  soul  in  Inisheen  is  fast  asleep; 
and  no  doubt  Miss  Romayne  is  supposed  to  be  asleep  too,  and 
dreaming  of  the  Conservatoire  and  her  debut  at  Covent  Gar- 
den; wliile  as  for  Master  Willie,  if  he  were  to  be  missed,  of 
course  they'd  imagine  he  was  away  after  the  wild-duck  again, 
so  it  would  be  all  right  for  him.  Sure  I  think,"  she  added, 
altering  her  voice  slightly,  and  speaking  very  shyly — "sure  I 
think  'tis  I  am  the  wild-duck  that  Masther  Willie  is  afther." 

"  Do  you  know,  Kitty,"  said  her  companion,  who  was  taller 
and  fairer  than  she :  a  young  fellow  of  two-and-tweuty,  per- 
haps, with  light  brown  wavy  hair,  the  shrewdest  of  clear  blue 
eyes,  and  a  well-set,  slim  figure— "do  you  know,  Kitty,  when 
you  speak  in  our  Irish  way  like  that,  my  heart  is  just  full  of 
love  for  you." 

"  Oh,  indeed !"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  "Oh,  indeed ! 
And  at  other  times  what  is  it  full  of,  then  ?" 

"  Well,  at  other  times,"  he  said — "  at  other  times,  you  see — 
well,  at  other  times,  Kitty,  do  you  know,  it  is  just  full  of  love 
for  you.  Never  mind.  When  I  go  to  England  I'll  soon  get 
rid  of  the  Cork  accent;  and  when  I  come  back  to  you,  Kitty — " 

"Indeed  you  may  save  yourself  the  trouble,"  she  inter- 
posed, promptly.  "I  am  not  going  to  have  any  stranger  come 
back  to  me.  I  am  going  to  have  nobody  but  my  wild  Irish 
boy,  with  whatever  accent  he  has,  and  with  all  the — the  cheek 
he  is  not  likely  to  get  rid  of  anywhere.  There's  no  other  word 
for  it,  I  declare.  Such  cheek  as  never  was  heard  of !  Do  you 
know,  sir,  that  I  sang  at  the  Crystal  Palace  with  Titiens  and 
Santley  ?" 

"You've  reminded  me  of  it  pretty  often,  Kitty,"  was  the 
meek  reply. 

"  Yes;  and  Miss  Catherine  Romayne,  who  has  sent  all  Dub- 
lin wild  with  her  siuging  of  Irish  songs,  who  could  make  en- 
gagements all  over  Ireland  for  the  rest  of  her  natural  life, 
comes  to  Cork — to  find  herself  patronized  by  the  Cork  Chron- 
icle! The  Cork  Chronicle,  indeed!  And  it  isn't  the  editor, 
mind  you,  but  only  the  sub-editor — does  he  sweep  out  the  office 
too  ? — that  has  undertaken  to  sing  the  praises  of  Miss  Romayne, 
and  make  the  whole  country  understand  what  a  wonder  she 
is !     Dear  me,  what  beautiful  language !     It  has  been  reserved 


OVER  RUNNING  WATER.  3 

for  an  English  singer  to  reveal  to  the  Irish  people  the  pathos 
of '  The  Bells  of  Shandon. '  Truly !  What  did  they  think  the 
song  was,  then  ?  Did  they  think  it  was  comic  ?  Then  came 
the  usual  thing — I  foresaw  it  from  the  beautiful  writing  in  the 
Cork  Chronicle — bouquets;  comxDlimentary  notes;  finally  an 
introduction;  and,  behold!  the  sub-editor  of  the  Chronicle 
isn't  in  the  least  a  pale  youth  with  long  hair  and  inky  fingers, 
but  rather  half  a  young  gamekeeper  and  half  a  young  squireen, 
and  the  remainder  a  fair-haired  Apollo  Belvedere  with  a  de- 
lightful accent  and  the  most  ingenuous  blush.  And  oh,  such 
innocence !  and  oh,  such  modesty !  Modesty !  '  May  he  be 
permitted  to  call  V  And  the  very  next  day,  as  Miss  Romayne 
and  her  faithful  guardian  are  seated  at  their  mid-day  meal, 
there's  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  enter  Mr.  Modesty !  Bless  the 
man,  I  said  to  myself,  doesn't  he  know  what's  what,  but  he 
must  pay  an  afternoon  call  at  two  o'clock  in  the  day  ?  Any- 
body in  his  senses  would  have  backed  out ;  but  you  weren't  the 
least  in  your  senses — confess  it  now,  Willie — " 

"  Were  you  ? — when  you  found  your  pretty  black  hair  was 
all  about  your  shoulders,  and  bottled  stout  on  the  table  ?  And 
'  would  Mr.  Fitzgerald  sit  down  and  have  some  lunch  V  and 
*  would  Mr.  Fitzgerald  prefer  a  glass  of  sherry  ?'  At  all  events, 
you  were  civil-mannered  then,  Kitty." 

This  was  carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's  counti^y;  but 
she  paid  no  heed. 

"  I  think  you  grew  more  happy,  Willie,  when  I  went  to  the 
piano,  and  so  got  my  back  turned  on  you,  and  when  Miss  Pa- 
tience took  her  newspaper  to  the  window ;  at  least  you  grew 
more  audacious  in  your  flattery — there  was  something  about 
Tara's  harp  being  awakened  again — and  then — there  was  a 
moment — after  that '  Bells  of  Shandon'  that  you  would  have — I 
think  there  was  a  moment  when  I  chanced  to  turn,  and  I  fan- 
cied young  Mr.  Gamekeeper's  clear  blue  eyes  weren't  quite  so 
clear  as  usual — can  you  tell  me  ?" 

"It  seems  a  long  time  ago,"  he  said,  absently,  "though  it 
isn't.  Can  you  tell  me,  Kitty,  why  it  is  that  Miss  Patience, 
who  was  so  friendly  with  me  at  first,  took  it  into  her  head  to 
quarrel  with  me  ?'' 

"  Why,  you  quai'relled  with  her!" 

' '  Nonsense ;  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort, "  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 


4  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  But  Avhen  her  raaimer  changed  all  of  a  sudden,  and  slie  prac- 
tically forbade  me  the  house,  of  course  I  took  the  hint." 

' '  And  a  nice  position  both  of  you  have  put  me  into !  But 
mind  you,  Master  Willie,  whether  you  had  been  going  to  Eng- 
land or  not,  this  must  have  been  the  last  of  these  hole-and- 
corner  meetings.  Moonlight  walks  are  very  pleasant;  but — 
but  it  won't  do,  you  know,  especially  for  one  placed  as  I  am. 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  propriety,  though  you  don't  seem  to 
think  so.  And  now  I  suppose  this  one  is  to  be  the  most  fatal 
of  all,  with  witcheries,  and  enchantments,  and  what  not.  By- 
the-way,"  she  added,  stopping  short  in  the  road,  and  looking 
him  straight  in  the  face,  "how  do  I  know  what  you  mayn't 
be  making  me  promise  ?  When  you  repeated  some  of  the 
gibberish  the  other  night,  of  course  I  couldn't  understand  a 
word." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  Kitty;  I  will  put  it  all  into  English  for 
you.  And  we  are  close  by  the  place  now.  If  you  will  step 
over  this  bit  of  the  wall,  I  will  take  you  down  into  the  glen." 

He  helped  her  over  the  low  moss-grown  wall,  and  they 
emerged  from  under  the  shadow  of  the  elms  into  the  clear 
open  glade  described  above.  Her  face,  which  was  unusually 
expressive  by  reason  of  those  soft,  large,  sloe-black  eyes,  was 
more  serious  now.  She  glanced  up  and  down  the  wooded  val- 
ley, lying  all  white  in  the  moonlight,  and  then  said  to  him, 
almost  in  a  whisper : 

"Is  this  wliere  you  said  the  saints  shut  up  Don  Fierna  and 
the  pixies  ?" 

"No,"  he  said;  "that  was  away  over  there  in  the  mount- 
ains. But  they  say  the  little  people  can  get  out  into  this  val- 
ley, and  you  won't  catch  many  of  the  Inisheen  natives  about 
here  after  dark.  Further  up  the  glen  there  is  a  very  curious 
echo ;  of  course  that  is  Don  Fierna  answering  you  when  you 
call  to  him.  But  they  don't  like  to  speak  about  sucli  things 
about  here:  the  priests  are  against  it." 

"  And  the  well  ?" 

"  It  is  down  there,"  he  answered,  pointing  to  the  narrow  ra- 
vine which  seemed  jet-black  below  them. 

"Oh,  I  can't  go  down  there,  Willie,"  she  said,  almost  shud- 
dering. 

"It  is  very  easy,"  he  answered,  cheerfully,  to  re-assure  her. 


OVER  RUNNING  WATER.  5 

"And  you  won't  find  it  dark  when  once  you  are  down.  Give 
me  your  liand,  Kitty;  hold  tight,  and  watch  where  you  put 
your  feet." 

Slowly  and  cautiously  they  made  their  way  down  the  side  of 
the  chasm,  through  the  bracken  and  furze  and  tangled  under- 
wood, until  at  last  they  reached  the  bed  of  the  streamlet  at  a 
point  where  the  water  tumbled  into  a  natural  basin  that  had 
been  worn  out  of  the  rock.  Nor  was  it  quite  so  dark  as  it  had 
appeared  from  above.  The  bushes  around  them  were  quite 
black,  it  is  true,  but  the  clear  sky  far  overhead  lent  a  reflected 
light  that  touched  here  and  there  the  falling  water  and  the 
troubled  pool  with  a  wan  gleam.  It  was  strange  that  the 
noise  of  the  brook  appeared  to  make  no  impression  on  the 
sound  of  their  voices.  This  seemed  to  be  an  absolute  silence 
in  which  they  spoke. 

He  stepped  across  the  water — she  remaining  on  this  side; 
and  then  he  reached  his  hand  to  her. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Kitty." 

She  did  so  in  silence.  Their  outstretched  hands  were  clasp- 
ed together  over  the  stream. 

' '  You  must  repeat  to  me  what  I  say  to  you — ife  is  quite  sim- 
ple, Kitty.  Don't  be  afraid."  (For  he  thought  she  was  trem- 
bling somewhat.)  "  Over  running  ivater :  My  love  I  give  to 
you ;  my  life  I  pledge  to  you ;  my  heart  I  take  not  back  from, 
you,  while  this  water  runs.'''' 

He  listened  for  her  voice ;  it  was  scarcely  audible. 

"Over  running  water:  My  love  I  give  to  you,"  she  said; 
"my  life  I  pledge  to  you ;  my  heart  I  take  not  back  from  you, 
while  this  water  runs.  Willie,  it  is  not  hard  to  promise  that. 
I  will  say  it  again  if  you  wish  me  to." 

' '  Listen,  Kitty.  Over  running  water:  Every  seventh  year, 
at  this  time  of  the  year,  at  this  time  of  the  night,  I  will  meet 
you  at  this  tvell,  to  renew  my  troth  to  you :  death  alone  to 
relieve  me  from  this  vow.''' 

She  repeated  the  words  without  faltering. 

"  And  this  is  the  last,  Kitty.  Over  running  water :  A  curse 
on  the  one  that  fails ;  and  a  curse  on  any  that  shall  try  to 
come  between  us  ttvo ;  and  grief  to  be  a  guest  in  their  house, 
and  sorroiv  to  dwell  in  their  house,  forever.''' 

"Oh    no,  not    that,  Willie!"    she   cried,  almost   piteously. 


6  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"Let  this  be  a  love  night.      Don't  let  there  be  any  hatred  in 
it.     I  don't  mind  the  rest — but  not  that !" 

He  did  not  answer;  he  held  her  hand  in  silence. 

"Well,  if  you  -want  me  to,  I  will.  Tell  me  the  words 
again." 

No  sooner  was  the  ceremony,  or  charm,  or  whatever  it 
might  be  called,  completed,  than  he  leaped  across  the  little 
stream,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her. 

"Now  you  are  mine,  Kitty!  Bell,  book,  and  candle  can't* 
divide  us  now.  But  why  are  you  trembling  ?  You  are  not 
afraid  ? — you  who  are  afraid  of  nothing !  Come,  we  will  clam- 
ber up  again  into  the  moonlight ;  you  know  if  Don  Fiema  has 
let  any  of  his  little  people  out,  you  would  never  get  a  glimpse 
of  them  away  down  here.  Wouldn't  it  be  fine  to  see  the  pro- 
cession come  down  through  the  bracken — 

'trooping  all  together, 
Green  Jacket,  Red  Cap, 
And  White  Owl's  Feather'? 

— Kitty,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"Yes,  let  us  get  away,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  want 
to  be  up  in  the  light — give  me  your  hand,  Willie." 

So  he  helped  her  to  clamber  up  through  the  brush-wood 
again  until  they  got  into  the  moonlight;  and  as  they  made  for 
the  road,  he  noticed  that  she  glanced  back  for  a  second — a 
hasty,  frightened  glance,  it  seemed — at  the  dark  hollow  from 
which  they  had  emerged.  But  he  would  not  have  her  fright- 
ened on  such  a  night  as  this.  He  would  have  nothing  but 
gladness,  and  hope,  and  love  promises  on  such  a  night.  And 
she  was  very  impressionable.  Soon  she  was  laughing.  Soon 
she  was  scolding  him  for  not  having  ordered  a  review  of  the 
little  people  for  her  beforehand.  Here  she  had  come  to  the 
very  head-quarters  of  the  elves  and  the  pixies,  and  not  one  to 
be  seen. 

"Oh  yes,  one,"  she  admitted.  "I  have  indeed  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  one — on  the  beach  this  morning;  and  a  moi-e 
extraordinary  one  Mr.  Doyle  never  drew.  You  know  him, 
Willie — at  least  he  says  he  knows  you  very  well — a  little  man 
with  wild  red  hair,  and  a  tall  hat,  and  a  scai'let  jacket  with 
gray  sleeves — " 


OVER  RUNNING  WATER,  7 

"Why,  it's  Andy  the  Hopper.     Had  he  his  pole  with  him  ?" 

"What  pole?" 

"The  leaping-pole  he  has  for  taking  shoi^t-cuts  across  the 
bogs,"  said  he,  greatly  delighted  to  see  her  so  cheerful  again. 

"  I  didn't  see  any  pole.  But  I  made  out  very  soon  that  he 
was  intimately  acquainted  with  you ;  and  so  I  thought  I  might 
as  well  get  some  independent  testimony  about  the  character  of 
my  husband  that  is  to  be.  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  was  most  dis- 
creet. Andy  the  Hopper,  if  that  is  his  name,  had  very  little 
notion  why  I  wanted  to  know  this  or  that  about  the  Fitzger- 
alds,  and  especially  about  Mr.  William  Fitzgerald.  Would 
you  like  to  know  how  he  described  you,  Willie  ?" 

"  If  Andy  the  Hopper  has  been  saying  anything  against  me 
— I  mean  to  you,  Kitty — I'll  beat  the  blackguard  with  his  own 
pole  till  there's  not  an  inch  of  whole  skin  on  him,"  was  her 
companion's  decisive  reply. 

"  'Is  it  Masther  Willie  ye  mane  ?'  he  said.  I  said  it  was. 
'  Sure,  miss,  'tis  the  duck's  back  that  Masther  Willie  has  got, 
and  trouble  runs  ofP  it  like  water.  At  the  very  ind  of  the  day 
if  he  was  to  lose  the  biggest  salmon  ever  hooked  in  the  Black- 
water,  d'ye  think  he'd  be  afther  sittin'  down  and  cryin'  ?  Divil 
a  bit — begging  your  pardon,  miss.  He'd  be  whistlin'  the  ould 
tunes  as  he  put  up  the  rod;  and  then  away  home  wid  his 
spaches  and  his  singing  and  his  poethry,  and  a  laugh  and  a 
joke  for  all  the  gyurls  that  he'd  meet.  Glory  be  to  God,  miss, 
but  'tis  Masther  Willie  has  the  light  heart. '  But  wait  a  mo- 
ment, Master  Willie.  I  thought  that  phrase  about  the  gyurls 
a  little  singular — or  rather  it  isn't  singular,  for  it's  jDlural. 
How  many  gyurls  is  an  Irish  young  gentleman  svipposed  to  be 
in  love  with  at  the  same  time  ?     Don't  I  know  the  song — 

'  Here's  a  health  to  the  girls  that  we  loved  long  ago, 
Where  the  Shannon,  and  LifEey,  and  Blackwater  flow'  ? 

—Why  '  girls'  ?" 

' '  Why  not,  Kitty  ?  The  song  is  about  the  Irish  Brigade. 
You  wouldn't  have  the  whole  brigade  in  love  with  one  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  it  sounds  suspicious;  and  I  suppose  we  are 
not  more  than  a  stone's-throw  frona  the  Blackwater  now.  But 
you  may  re-assure  yourself,  Master  Willie.  I  was  very  dis- 
creet.    I  put  no  questions  about  the  gyurls  to  the  gentleman 


8  SHANDON  BELLS. 

in  the  red  jacket ;  and  so  he  went  on  to  say  you  were  a  great 
sportsman,  and  to  give  nie  many  stories  of  midnight  adven- 
tures you  and  he  had  had  together  after  the  wild-fowl." 

"That's  all  over  now,  Kitty,"  said  he,  looking  away  across 
to  the  shallows  and  the  mud-fiats  of  the  wide  bay  of  Inisheen, 
where  many  a  time  he  had  brought  a  mallard  thumping  down, 
or  listened  to  the  clang  of  a  string  of  wild-geese  far  overhead 
in  the  dark.  "London  is  a  terrible  place  to  be  alone  in.  I 
remember  the  first  time  I  went  there,  and  saw  the  miles  and 
miles  of  streets  and  houses,  and  the  strange  faces,  and  the 
crowds  hurrying  and  hurrying  and  hurrying.  I  said  to  my- 
self I  should  lose  heart  altogether  if  I  were  to  find  myself 
alone  in  such  a  tremendous  ocean,  fighting  to  keep  my  head 
above  water.  Better  the  Cork  Chronicle,  and  an  ambition 
limited  to  the  publishing  of  one  small  volume  of  poems  some 
day,  and,  for  the  rest  of  it,  over  the  bog  after  snipe  or  up  the 
mountain  after  hares  with  Andy  the  Hopper.  And  then  you 
must  needs  come  along,  Kitty,  and  spoil  all  my  content. 
Even  now  I  fear  I  am  going  to  London  against  my  better 
judgment.  Having  you,  Kitty,  what  do  I  want  with  fame  or 
money  ?" 

' '  Stuff !  I  know  you  are  fearfully  ambitious,  Master  Willie, 
though  you  won't  own  it.  Would  you  like  to  go  on  forever  as 
the  sub-editor  of  the  Cork  Chronicle  f  Would  you  have  me 
keep  singing  away  at  concerts  until  my  little  share  of  good 
looks  was  gone,  and  then  the  public  would  discover  there  was 
nothing  in  my  singing  at  all  ?  I  am  certain  your  philosophy 
is  all  pretense.  I  don't  believe  Andy  the  Hopper  a  bit  when 
he  says  you'd  only  whistle  an  ould  tune  or  spake  poethry  after 
losing  a  big  fish;  I  believe  you  would  be  much  nearer  crying 
with  vexation.  You  don't  impose  on  me,  Master  Willie;  and 
we  will  see  some  day  whether  London  is  too  big  for  you  to 
fight." 

"If  it  was  the  old  times,  Kitty,  and  I  could  start  with  a 
shield  and  a  spear  and  your  ribbon  round  my  arm:  that  would 
be  something  like  the  thing.  But  at  any  rate  I  can  carry  your 
name  in  my  heart." 

Slie  stopped  and  took  his  head  in  her  two  hands,  and  pulled 
it  down  and  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  forehead. 

"That  is  where  the  victor's  crown  is  to  be,"  she  said. 


OVER  RUNNING  WATER.  9 

"I  am  not  tliinking  of  any  victor's  crown,"  said  he.  " I  am 
thinking  of  the  trip  that  you  and  I  will  make,  every  seven 
years,  to  this  old  place  of  Inisheen,  and  our  going  over  the  old 
walks  again,  and  thinking  of  old  times.  And  the  day  may 
come,  Kitty,  when  getting  down  that  steep  bank  may  be  too 
much  for  frail  old  limbs,  and  perhaps  Don  Fierna  will  excuse 
us,  if  we  make  the  pilgrimage,  and  show  him  that  we  have  not 
separated,  even  if  we  don't  try  to  go  down  to  the  well." 

"Seven  years,"  she  said,  musingly.  "It  is  a  long  time, 
Willie—" 

But  he  did  not  hear  her.  He  had  stepped  down  to  unmoor 
a  small  boat  that  lay  half  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  a  creek. 
When  he  was  ready  he  called  to  her ;  and  then  he  assisted  her, 
with  the  most  affectionate  care,  into  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and 
pulled  her  shawl  close  at  the  neck,  and  generally  had  her 
made  comfortable.  Then  he  took  the  oars,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments they  had  shot  out  into  the  broad  and  shallow  and  moon- 
lit waters  of  the  inner  bay  of  Inisheen.  As  yet  they  could  talk 
together  openly  without  fear  of  being  overheard  from  the 
shore ;  for  Inisheen  itself — a  tumbled  mass  of  houses  and  quays 
and  vessels— lay  away  along  there  between  them  and  the  At- 
lantic. 

"Besides,"  continued  Miss  Romayne,  as  if  she  had  been  re- 
suming some  argument,  "you  say  yourself  this  is  such  a 
chance  as  you  might  never  get  again." 

"Well,  it  is  a  chance,"  he  answered,  slowly  pulling  away 
at  the  short  (and  muffled)  oars.  "Fancy  Hilton  Clarke  being 
in  Inisheen,  and  no  one  knowing  it!" 

"Perhaps  they  were  all  as  wise  as  I  was,  Willie,  and  had 
never  heard  his  name  before." 

"You  must  have  heard  his  name,  Kitty,"  he  said,  impatient- 
ly. ' '  Why,  he  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of  letters 
in  England." 

"But  what  has  he  done,  Willie  ?" 

"Oh,  everything,"  he  said,  rather  confusedly.  "  Every  one 
knows  who  he  is.  There  is  scarcely  a  better  known  name  in 
contemporary  literature." 

"  But  what  has  he  done,  Willie  ?  I  might  get  it  and  read  it, 
you  know." 

"Why,  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  critics  of  the  day — writes 

1* 


10  SHANDON   BELLS. 

for  all  sorts  of  things:  there  is  no  one  better  known.  He  is 
said  to  have  the  finest  judgment  in  literary  matters  of  almost 
anybody  living;  and  the  reviews  that  he  writes  are  always  so 
scholarlj',  and — and  full  of  happy  ingenuities  of  expi'ession — 
any  one  can  recognize  them — " 

"Yes,"  said  the  pertinacious  young  lady  with  the  pretty 
mouth  and  the  soft  dark  eyes,  ' '  but  hasn't  he  done  anything 
himself  ?  Hasn't  he  done  any  work  of  his  own  ?  Couldn't 
I  buy  a  book  of  his  to  let  me  know  something  more  of  your 
wonderful  hero  ?" 

"Well,  I  believe  he  translated  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai — the  ori- 
ginal edition;  but  the  book  was  privately  printed." 

"I  am  sure  I  never  heard  of  it,  in  English  or  anything  else," 
said  she. 

"Perhaps  you  never  heard  of  Baudelaire  either,  Kitty,"  said 
he,  gently.  "You  see,  it  would  be  easy  for  you  to  puzzle  me 
about  the  distinguished  people  in  music,  I  know  so  little  about 
what's  going  on  in  music." 

"Oh,  veiy  well,"  said  she,  good-naturedly,  "let  him  be  as 
distinguished  as  you  like ;  that  can't  make  him  an  agreeable- 
looking  man." 

"  I  consider  him  very  handsome,"  he  said,  in  astonishment. 

"What!  that  lanky,  supercilious,  white-faced  ci'eature,  with 
his  stony  stare  ?" 

He  bm-st  out  laughing. 

"I  do  believe  you're  jealous,  Kitty.  Why,  you  only  saw 
him  for  a  second  at  the  door  of  the  Imperial,  and  you  have 
never  spoken  to  him.  I  consider  him  an  exceedingly  fine  fel- 
low, and  the  trouble  he  took  about  me — a  perfect  stranger  to 
him — was  quite  extraordinary.  It  was  indeed  a  chance,  my 
running  against  him  at  all.  You  know,  Kitty,"  said  he — 
though  there  was  a  slight  blush  on  his  face — "I  am  not 
ashamed  of  my  father  keeping  an  inn,  or  a  public-house,  or 
whatever  you  may  call  it — " 

' '  An  inn !"  she  exclaimed.  * '  A  public-house !  The  Impay- 
rial  Hotel — the  only  hotel  m  Inisheen — to  be  talked  of  like 
that !" 

" — but  all  the  same  when  I  come  here  I  don't  go  into  the 
smoking-room.  It  is  always  fillea  with  these  Coursing  Club 
people  ;  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington  '  wrenched,  killed,  and 


OVER  RUNNING  WATER.  11 

won  like  a  hero' ;  and  Sweetbrier  was  '  slow  from  the  slips' ; 
and  Timothy"  '  scored  first  turn' ;  and  Miss  Maguire  '  finished 
with  the  most  lovely  mill' ;  and  all  the  rest  of  the  jargon.  In- 
deed I'd  rather  go  to  another  inn,  if  there  was  one,  when  I 
come  to  Inisheen;  hut  that  might  vex  my  father.  Well,  this 
stranger  I  didn't  meet  at  the  inn  at  all,  but  along  the  road, 
with  his  basket  and  rod  and  gafP  all  complete ;  and  as  we  got 
talking  about  fishing,  I  looked  over  his  fly-book  for  him — all 
sorts  of  fantastic  nonsense  got  up  in  London  to  look  pretty  in 
a  drawing-room.  Then  I  offei'ed  to  show  him  some  flies. 
Then  it  turned  out  he  was  staying  at  the  Imperial.  And  then 
we  had  a  long  evening  together — all  contrariwise;  for  I  had 
found  out  who  he  was,  and  I  wanted  to  talk  about  all  the  liter- 
ary men  in  London — and  he  seemed  to  know  every  one  of 
them ;  but  he  wanted  to  talk  about  nothing  but  river  trout  and 
sea  trout  and  grilse  and  salmon,  and  the  different  rivers  in  the 
neighborhood.  But  it  was  a  fine  evening,  all  the  same ;  and 
he  showed  himself  most  friendly — and  has  been  so  ever  since, 
Miss  Kitty,  in  his  letters.  And  just  fancy  his  asking  me,  a 
young  newspaper  fellow  in  Cork,  to  come  and  see  him  as  soon 
as  I  got  to  London !  If  you  only  knew  the  position  he  holds — 
But  I  think  we'd  better  be  quiet  now,  Kitty,  until  we  get  past 
the  town." 

Picturesque  indeed  was  the  old  town  of  Inisheen  on  this 
beautiful  night — the  moonlight  shining  on  the  windows  of  the 
few  houses  on  the  side  of  the  hill  and  on  the  gray  gables  along 
the  harbor,  and  causing  the  golden  cock  on  the  top  of  the  old 
Town-hall  to  gleam  as  if  it  were  a  repetition  of  the  beacon-light 
far  away  there  on  the  cliff  overlooking  the  sea,  while  heavy 
masses  of  shadow  lay  over  the  various  creeks  and  quays,  where 
broad-bottomed  vessels  had  found  a  berth  in  the  ooze.  But 
there  was  another  Inisheen — an  Inisheen  of  new  and  trim  vil- 
las— that  formed  a  fashionable  watering-place  fronting  the 
open  sea;  and  there  it  was  that  Miss  Romayne  lodged,  and 
thither  it  was  that  Master  Willie  was  stealthily  rowing.  In- 
deed, they  soon  drew  away  from  the  picturesque  old  town,  and 
found  before  them  the  gently  murmuring  Atlantic,  that  broke 
in  a  fringe  of  silver  foam  all  along  the  level  sands. 

And  Miss  Romayne  was  singing,  too — not  with  the  fine  con- 
tralto voice  that  she  could  send  ringing  through  a  vast  hall, 


12  SHANDON   BELLS. 

but  humming'  to  herself,  as  it  were,  in  a  low  and  gentle  fash- 
ion, "Farewell!  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour,"  and 
putting  a  good  deal  more  pathos  into  the  words  than  appears 
thei'e  if  one  reads  tliem  in  cold  blood.  For  she  had  a  pathetic 
voice;  and  these  two  were  alone  under  the  shining  heavens 
and  on  the  beautiful  calm  sea;  and  they  were  young,  and 
life  and  love  were  before  them,  and  also  the  tragic  misery  of 
parting. 

"I  will  hid  you  the  real  good-by  to-night,  Willie,"  she  said, 
"and  then  I  don't  care  for  fifty  Miss  Patiences  to-morrow. 
You  must  put  me  ashore  at  the  jetty,  and  I  will  walk  up  alone. 
She  is  sure  to  be  asleep.  If  not,  then  I  was  restless,  and  had 
to  go  out  for  a  walk.  And  you  will  stop  at  the  jetty,  Willie, 
until  you  see  me  right  up  at  the  house,  in  case  Don  Fierna  and 
his  little  people  should  snatch  me  up  and  carry  me  off  to  that 
dreadful  glen." 

"  Why  dreadful,  Kitty  ?     Are  you  sorry  ?" 

"Oh  no — not  sorry.  But  there  is  something  unholy  about 
all  that  happened  there.  If  that  well  were  like  the  other  wells 
about,  that  the  saints  have  blessed,  there  would  have  been  lit- 
tle bits  of  ribbon  and  such  like  offerings  on  the  bushes.  There 
was  nothing  of  that  kind  there.  I  know  I  wouldn't  go  back 
alone  to  that  valley  for  a  million  pounds." 

He  rested  one  hand  on  the  oars,  and  with  the  other  reached 
over  and  took  hers. 

"But  I  hope  neither  you  nor  I,  Kitty,  will  ever  find  our- 
selves there  alone." 

He  rowed  in  to  the  little  jetty,  and  then  stepped  ashore,  and 
assisted  her  to  follow  on  to  the  gray  stones.  The  leave-taking 
Avas  a  long  one ;  there  were  many  assurances  and  asseverations, 
and  a  little  hysterical  crying  on  her  part.  But  at  last  the 
final  good-by  had  to  come,  and  he  put  a  hand  on  each  of  her 
cheeks,  and  held  her  head,  as  though  he  would  read  to  the  bot- 
tom of  those  soft,  beautiful,  tear-bedimmed  eyes. 

"You  will  never  forget — you  can  not  forget — what  you 
promised  me  to-night,  when  our  hands  were  clasped  over  the 
stream  ?" 

"Is  it  likely?"  she  said,  sobbing  violently.  "Is  it  likely  I 
shall  forget,  any  single  day  as  long  as  I  live  ?" 

Then  she  went  away  alone,  and  he  waited,  and  watched  the 


A  HIGH  CONCLAVE.  13 

solitary  slight  little  figure  go  along  the  moon-lit  road,  and  up 
to  the  house.  There  was  a  flutter  of  a  white  handkerchief ;  he 
returned  that  signal.  He  waited  again;  there  was  no  sign. 
So  he  got  into  the  boat  again,  and  rowed  silently  away  to  In- 
isheen  harboi%  like  one  in  a  dream. 

Only  a  moonlight  night,  and  the  parting  of  two  lovers. 
And  yet  sometimes  such  things  remain  visible  across  the  yeai's. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  HIGH  CONCLAVE. 

That  was  an  eventful  evening  in  the  life  of  young  Fitzger- 
ald when  he  made  his  way,  not  without  some  inward  tremor, 
to  the  Albany,  in  order  to  dine  with  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke.  For 
not  only  was  that  high  honor  in  store  for  him,  but  moreover 
this  new  friend,  who  had  been  exceedingly  kind  to  him  in 
many  ways,  had  promised  he  should  also  meet  Mr.  GiflFord, 
the  editor  of  the  Liberal  Review.  Imagine  a  boy-lieutenant 
just  joined  asked  to  dine  with  the  Commander-in-Chief  and 
his  staff !  Away  in  that  provincial  newspaper  office,  Master 
Willie  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  the  London  Liberal  Re- 
vieiv  as  perhaps  the  wisest  and  most  original  and  honest  of 
modern  journals ;  he  had  many  a  time  clipped  out  its  opinions 
and  quoted  them  pi'ominently  in  the  Co7'k  Chronicle  ;  he  had 
even  from  week  to  week  studied  the  way  of  writing  that  char- 
actei'ized  its  columns.  And  here  he  was  to  meet  the  editor  in 
actual  flesh  and  blood !  To  listen  to  the  great  critic  and  the 
great  journalist  at  once!  Moreover,  he  could  not  help  sus- 
pecting that  Hilton  Clarke  had  arranged  this  meeting  lest  per- 
adventure  it  might  be  of  some  service,  near  or  remote,  to  the 
young  aspirant.  He  did  not  know  what  he  had  done  to  de- 
serve such  kindness,  such  good  fortune.  How  had  it  all  come 
about  ?  So  far  as  he  could  see,  merely  through  his  happening 
to  know  what  were  the  best  salmon  flies  for  the  Blackwater. 

Of  course  he  arrived  too  soon,  and  so  had  plenty  of  time  to 
saunter  up  and  down  the  echoing  little  thoroughfare,  and  mas- 
ter the  lettering  and  numbering  of  the  buildings.  But  when 
at  last  he  made  his  way  up  the  stone  staircase  to  the  door  on 


14  SHANDON   BELLS. 

the  first  landing,  and  was  met  by  a  tall  middle-aged  woman 
with  a  foreign-looking  cap  on  her  head,  who,  in  broken  Eng- 
lish, showed  him  where  to  leave  his  hat  and  coat,  and  then 
ushered  him  into  an  apartment  the  like  of  which  he  had  never 
seen  in  his  life  before,  he  began  to  ask  himself  if  he  had  not 
made  a  mistake.  Perhaps  he  would  again  have  demanded  of 
the  black-eyed,  soft- voiced,  grave  person  if  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke 
lived  there,  but  she  had  gone.  However,  it  was  clear  that 
some  one  was  going  to  dine  in  this  room,  for  in  the  middle  of 
it  was  a  small  square  table  very  daintily  laid  out,  and  lit  by  a 
lamp  with  a  pink  and  white  porcelain  shade  that  threw  a  soft 
rosy  glow  around.  So  at  hap-hazard  he  sat  down,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  gaze  with  a  sort  of  awe  at  the  wonderful  chamber, 
the  treasures  in  which,  if  he  had  known  anything  about  them, 
he  would  have  perceived  to  have  come  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  but  mostly  fi'om  Venice.  From  Venice  had  come  the 
row  of  lustrous  copper  water  vessels  that  had  been  transformed 
into  big  flower-pots,  and  ranged  along  there  on  the  little  bal- 
cony outside  the  French  windows ;  also  the  quaint  and  delicate 
white  and  gold  chairs  and  couches  that  were  now  dim  with 
age ;  and  perha^js,  too,  the  framed  chalice-cloth  over  the  chim- 
ney-piece, the  beautiful  rich  embroidery  of  which  appeared  to 
be  falling  away  by  its  own  weight  from  the  frail  silken 
ground.  But  there  was  a  large  inlaid  Spanish  cabinet  in  scar- 
let and  lacquered  brass  that  was  itself  a  blaze  of  color;  and 
there  were  Kirwan  rugs  scattered  about  the  floor ;  and  on  the 
walls  were  gorgeous  masses  of  Turkish  embroidery ;  likewise  a 
series  of  candles  in  sconces,  over  each  of  which  was  hung  a 
piece  of  Hispano-Moresque  pottery,  the  red  glow  from  these 
large  dishes  completing  the  barbaric  splendor  of  the  place. 
For  the  rest,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  Moorish  metal  and  ivory 
work  about ;  but  there  was  not  a  picture  nor  an  engraving  on 
the  walls,  nor  a  book  nor  a  newspaper  anywhere. 

Presently  a  door  opened,  and  Hilton  Clarke  appeared. 

"  How  are  you,  Fitzgerald  ?     Glad  to  see  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"Oh,  will  you  excuse  me  for  a  second ?" 

As  he  disappeared  into  the  bedroom  again,  a  mighty  qualm 
shot  to  the  heart  of  young  Fitzgerald.  His  host  was  in  even- 
ing dress.     He  glanced  at  the  table,  which  was  laid  out  for 


A  HIGH   CONCLAVE.  15 

four :  no  doubt  the  other  two  guests  would  be  in  evening  dress 
also!  The  mere  thought  of  it  was  agony.  It  was  not  that 
they  might  consider  him  a  country  bumpkin ;  it  was  that  they 
might  think  him  failing  in  due  respect  to  themselves.  He 
had  had  no  idea  tliat  London  men  of  letters  lived  like  this. 
Even  if  he  had  brought  his  rusty  old  suit  of  evening  dress 
from  Ireland,  lie  would  probably  never  have  thought  of  put- 
ting it  on  to  go  to  dinner  at  a  bachelor's  rooms.  He  wished 
himself  a  hundred  miles  away  from  the  place.  He  ought 
never  to  have  accepted  an  invitation  to  meet  great  people  un- 
til he  had  himself  done  something.  It  served  him  right  for 
his  presumption.  And  would  they  think  it  was  out  of  disre- 
spect ?  Would  it  be  better  for  him  to  explain  and  apologize  ? 
Or  to  make  some  excuse  now,  and  get  rapidly  away  ? 

In  a  very  few  minutes  his  host  appeared  again — in  morning 
costume. 

"I  think  you're  right,  Fitzgerald,"  he  said,  carelessly,  as  he 
flung  himself  into  an  easy-chair.  "A  shooting  coat  will  be 
more  comfortable;  it's  got  quite  chilly  to-night." 

Fitzgerald's  heart  leaped  up  with  gratitude.  Was  not  this, 
he  asked  himself,  the  action  of  a  true  gentleman— an  action 
prompted  by  an  mstinctive  courtesy  quick  to  take  uito  consid- 
eration the  feelings  of  others  ?  He  was  half  inclined  to  be  an- 
gry with  Kitty — poor  Kitty  who  was  so  far  away!  But  he 
would  write  to  her:  he  would  challenge  her  to  say  whether 
this  little  bit  of  courtesy,  trifling  as  it  might  appear,  was  not  a 
safe  indication  of  character. 

And  it  must  be  confessed  that  Kitty  was  quite  willfully 
wrong  when  she  refused  to  perceive  that  her  lover's  new  ac- 
quaintance was  handsome,  and  even  distinguished-looking. 
He  was  a  man  of  about  thirty,  tall,  sparely  built ;  his  head  well 
set  on  squax'e  shoulders,  his  features  refined  and  i^ensive  some- 
what, with  eyes  of  a  clear  light  blue,  and  calm  and  contem- 
plative ;  blonde  hair  and  beard  (which  he  wore  somewhat 
long),  and  hands  of  extreme  whiteness  and  elegance.  His 
beautifully  shaped  nails,  indeed,  occupied  a  good  deal  of  his 
attention ;  and  as  he  now  lay  back  in  the  easy-chair,  he  was 
contemplating  them  rather  than  the  young  man  he  was  ad- 
dressing. 

"There  are  some  pretty  things  in  the  room,  aren't  there?" 


16  SHANDON  BELLS. 

lie  said,  in  a  tone  of  indifference,  though  he  still  regai'ded  his 
nails  with  care.  "  They  are  a  bit  too  violent  in  color  for  me. 
I  like  repose  in  a  I'oom.     But  the  capitalist  will  be  impressed." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  Fitzgerald  (how  glad  he  was 
about  that  business  of  the  shooting  coat!). 

"Oh,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  indifferent  kind  of  way, 
"I  forgot  I  hadn't  told  you.  There's  a  man  coming  here  to- 
night who  has  too  much  money.  It  isn't  right  for  a  man  to 
have  so  much  money.  I  think  I  can  induce  him  to  risk  a  lit- 
tle of  it  in  a  journalistic  venture — I  think  so;  I  don't  know: 
the  thing  looks  to  me  promising  enough.  Only  I  thought  my 
capitalist  would  be  impressed  with  a  little  grandeur;  and  so  I 
rented  these  rooms  for  a  time.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that 
all  that  scarlet  and  red  pottery  kind  of  thing  is  what  I  should 
prefer.  I  like  repose  in  a  room,  as  I  say ;  something  to  quiet 
the  eyes  when  you  are  tired.  Then  the  other  man  you  will 
meet — oh,  I  told  you — Gifford.   What  a  comical  old  cock  he  is !" 

Fitzgerald  could  scarce  credit  his  ears.  The  editor  of  the 
Liberal  Review  to  be  spoken  of  in  this  familiar  and  patroniz- 
ing way ! 

"The  odd  thing  is,"  continued  Hilton  Clarke,  as  he  slowly 
opened  and  shut  a  pencil-case  with  his  beautiful  long  nails, 
' '  that  he  has  been  able  to  get  round  about  him  a  lot  of  writers 
who  are  exactly  like  himself,  or  who  pretend  to  be.  They  are 
all  fearfully  in  earnest;  and  dogmatic  about  trifles;  making 
the  most  profound  discoveries  in  new  poets,  new  actresses, 
new  politicians ;  always  professing  to  be  exceedingly  accurate, 
and  never  able  to  quote  three  figures  without  a  blunder.  The 
whole  thing  is  comical;  but  the  public  believe  them  to  be  so 
sincere.  To  me  they  seem  to  be  continually  wandering  in  a 
fog;  and  one  stumbles  against  a  lamp-post,  and  shrieks  out: 
'  My  gracious  goodness,  if  this  isn't  the  greatest  genius  of  a 
poet  since  the  time  of  Byron !'  and  another  tumbles  on  to  the 
pavement  where  a  beggar  has  been  drawing  chalk  pictures, 
and  there's  a  wild  cry  from  him  too :  '  Heaven  preserve  my 
poor  senses  if  this  isn't  Carpaccio  come  back  again !  How  can 
I  express  my  emotion  but  in  tears!'  I  am  told  Gifford's  last 
theory  is  that  political  disturbances  have  the  same  origin  as 
terrestrial  disturbances:  the  eai'th  suffering  from  a  surfeit  of 
electricity,  don't  you  know,  or  some  such  thing,  and  firing  off 


A  HIGH  CONCLAVE.  17 

one-half  of  it  as  an  earthquake  at  Valparaiso,  and  the  other 
half  of  it  at  the  same  moment  as  an  insurrection  among  the 
Poles.  Different  forms  of  gas,  I  suppose.  I  wondei*,  when  a 
number  of  the  Liberal  Eevieiu  is  published  here,  what  porten- 
tous explosion  takes  place  at  the  other  side  of  the  world.  But 
there's  one  good  ]3oint  about  old  Gifford:  he  is  always  very 
fi'ank  in  apologizing  for  his  blunders.  You  generally  find 
him  saying,  '  Last  week  we  inadvertently  mentioned  Lord  Rus- 
sell as  having  been  principally  concerned  in  the  abolition  of 
the  Corn  Laws ;  of  course  every  one  must  have  seen  that  we 
meant  the  Duke  of  Wellington. '  And  then  the  following  week, 
'  We  last  week,  by  a  slip  of  the  pen,  attributed  the  establish- 
ment of  Free  Trade  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington;  every  one 
must  have  seen  that  we  meant  Sir  Robert  Peel.'  I  only  hope 
he'll  take  it  into  his  head  to  discover  a  mare's-nest  in  this  new 
weekly  I  am  thinking  of,  and  give  us  a  flaming  article  about 
it;  it's  all  a  toss-up  whether  he  does  or  not." 

Fitzgerald  heard  all  this  with  dismay,  and  even  with  a  trifle 
of  pain.  He  was  a  born  hero  -  worshipper ;  and  for  this  un- 
known editor,  whose  opinions  he  had  reverenced  for  many  a 
year,  he  had  a  very  high  regard  indeed.  It  was  almost  shock- 
ing to  hear  him  S]Doken  of  as  a  comical  person.  But  the  truth 
was  that  Fitzgerald  did  not  understand  that  there  was  a  spice 
of  revenge  in  this  tirade  uttered  so  negligently.  Only  that 
morning  it  had  happened  that  a  good-natured  friend  had  re- 
peated to  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  something  that  had  been  said  of 
him  by  Mr.  Gifford.  The  good-natured  friend  did  not  in  the 
least  mean  to  make  mischief;  it  was  only  a  little  joke;  and  in- 
deed there  was  nothing  very  terrible  in  what  Mr.  Gifford  had 
said.  ' '  Clarke  ?  Hilton  Clarke,  do  you  mean  ?  Oh,  he  is 
the  sort  of  man  who  writes  triolets,  parts  his  hair  down  the 
middle,  and  belongs  to  the  Savile  Club."  Now  there  is  no  one 
of  these  things  absolutely  criminal ;  in  fact,  a  man  might  com- 
mit them  all  and  still  be  recognized  as  an  honest  British  citi- 
zen. Only  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  did  not  like  to  be  ticketed  and 
passed  on  in  that  way;  and  so  he  took  his  earliest  oi^portunity 
of  revenge. 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Five  minutes  past  eight,"  he  said.  "Twenty  minutes  late 
already.    I  never  wait  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  any- 


18  SHANDON   BELLS. 

body;  so  we  will  have  dinner.     Fiammetta!     Hola! — Fiam- 
metta!" 

There  was  no  answer,  so  he  touched  a  little  silver-handled 
bell  near  him ;  and  the  tall  dark-eyed  Avoman — she  seemed  to 
have  been  very  beautiful  at  one  time,  Fitzgerald  thought,  as  he 
now  had  a  better  look  at  her — made  her  appearance. 

"  L'on  n'ari'ive  pas;  faites  servir," 

"Bien,  m'sieur." 

But  at  the  same  moment  there  was  a  noise  outside  in  the 
passage,  and  very  shortly  afterward  Fiammetta  ushered  in  two 
gentlemen.  The  first,  who  was  rubbing  his  hands,  and  look- 
ing very  cheerful, was  a  portly,  rubicund,  blonde  person,  whose 
short  yelloAV  mustache  and  whiskers  looked  almost  white  as 
contrasted  with  his  round,  red,  shining  face;  he  wore  one  blaz- 
ing diamond  as  a  stud;  and  his  boots  shone  almost  as  brill- 
iantly as  the  diamond  did.  Him  Fitzgerald  instantly  dismiss- 
ed as  of  no  account,  and  concentrated  his  eager  interest  on  the 
next  comer,  who  was  certainly  of  more  striking  appearance. 
He  was  a  man  of  middle  height,  of  powerful  build ;  his  face 
sallow;  his  hair  jet-black  and  unkempt;  his  features  strong, 
and  yet  keen  and  intellectual;  his  eyes  so  very  clear,  in  the 
midst  of  a  dark  face,  that  they  resembled  the  eyes  of  a  lion. 
The  general  impression  you  would  have  gathered  from  his  look 
was  that  he  was  an  intellectually  powerful  man,  but  unduly 
aggressive ;  though  this  impression  was  modified  by  his  voice, 
which  was  pleasant,  and  by  his  laugh,  which  was  delightftd. 

After  the  usual  apologies  and  introductions,  and  when  Hil- 
ton Clarke  had  expressed  his  regret  that  these  two  guests 
should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  come  in  evening  dress  (if 
Kitty  had  only  seen  how  nicely  that  was  done !),  they  sat  dowoi 
to  the  little  square  table;  and  Fiammetta,  having  handed 
round  a  dish  containing  caviare,  olives  stuffed  with  sardines, 
and  similar  condiments,  offered  to  each  of  the  guests  his 
choice  of  liqueurs.  As  Fitzgerald  had  never  heard  any  of  the 
names  before — and  as  he  was  far  more  interested  in  his  com- 
panions than  in  the  ministrations  of  the  soft-eyed  and  velvet- 
footed  Fiammetta — he  absently  answered,  "Yes,  if  you  please," 
and  did  not  even  look  at  the  reddish-colored  fluid  that  was 
poured  into  his  glass.  A  minute  afterward  he  was  brought  to 
his  senses.     Having  observed  the  results  of  certain  Coursing 


A  HIGH   CONCLAVE.  19 

Club  dinners  at  Inisheeu,  he  bad  long  ago  vowed  to  bimself 
never  to  touch  spirits  of  any  kind ;  and  he  had  faithfully  kept 
bis  vow.  But  be  never  imagined  that  this  reddish  fluid  could 
be  anything  else  than  wine;  and  not  particulai'ly  liking  the 
oily  taste  of  the  caviare,  be  thought  be  would  remove  it  by 
drinking  this  glass.  The  next  moment  he  Avas  convinced  that 
the  roof  of  his  bead  was  off,  and  his  throat  on  fire.  He  hastily 
gulped  down  some  water ;  fortunately  he  did  not  choke ;  no 
one  noticed ;  and  by-and-by,  somewhat  panting,  and  very  red 
in  the  face,  be  was  enabled  to  resume  his  attitude  of  respectful 
and  eager  attention. 

The  convex'vSation  was  entirely  confined  to  Hilton  Clarke  and 
Mr.  Gifford;  Mr.  Scobell,  the  capitalist,  being  a  most  valiant 
trencher-man,  minded  his  own  business.  And  indeed  for  some 
time  the  remarks  on  affairs  of  the  day  and  on  the  doings  of 
public  men  were  somewhat  obvious  and  commonplace,  if  one 
may  dare  to  say  so;  although  here  and  there  occurred  a  sug- 
gestion that  these  two  men  bad  very  different  ways  of  looking 
at  things.  However,  all  the  assertion  was  on  the  side  of  Mr. 
Giffoi'd,  whenever  any  disputable  subject  was  approached.  His 
host  did  not  care  to  contradict.  He  would  rather  make  some 
little  facetious  remark,  or  shrug  his  shoulders.  Gifford's  atti- 
tude was  one  of  conviction  and  insistence ;  Clai"ke's  might 
have  been  summed  up  in  the  word  '''' connu.''''  Wlien  the  leo- 
nine gentleman  was  vehemently  declaring  that  the  laureate's 
last  volume,  which  bad  been  published  that  very  week,  was  a 
master-piece;  that  never  before  had  he  written  anything  so 
consistently  dramatic  in  its  conception,  so  musical  in  its  lyrics, 
so  pathetic  in  its  tragedy;  and  that  in  consequence  life  seemed 
to  have  had  something  added  to  it  within  these  last  few  days, 
bis  host  remarked — while  carefully  looking  for  bones  in  the 
red  mullet — "Oh  yes,  it  is  a  pleasant  sort  of  poem." 

But,  by  dire  mishap,  they  blundered  into  the  American  civil 
war,  which  Avas  then  a  topic  of  more  recent  interest  than  it  is 
now.  At  first  the  reinarks  were  only  casual,  and  perhaps  also 
not  profoundly  novel. 

"At  all  events,"  said  Hilton  Clarke  at  last,  "there  is  one 
point  on  which  everybody  is  agreed  —  that  the  Southerners 
have  the  advantage  of  being  gentlemen." 

"The  gentlemen  of  the  Salisbury  stockade — the  gentlemen 


20  SHANDON   BELLS. 

of  Audersonville!"  retorted  his  opponent,  with  a  flash  in  the 
deep-set  gray  eyes. 

"  And  they  fought  gallantly  too,  until  they  were  beaten  back 
by  the  undisciplined  crowds  that  poured  down  on  them — flung 
at  them,  indeed,  by  reckless  generals  who  knew  no  more  of  the 
art  of  war  than  they  did  of  common  humanity.  Of  course,  if 
you  have  every  advantage  of  men  and  money  and  war  ma- 
terial— " 

But  this  was  like  the  letting  in  of  Avaters.  Even  Mr.  Scobell 
looked  up.  For  the  Liberal  Revieiv  had  been  a  warm  partisan 
of  the  North  during  the  war;  and  Mr.  Gifford  had  written 
nearly  all  of  the  war  articles  himself,  so  that  his  information, 
whether  precisely  accurate  or  not,  was  of  mighty  volume ;  and 
down  it  came  on  the  head  of  his  opponent  like  a  cataract.  All 
the  campaigns  had  to  be  fought  over  again :  now  they  were 
investing  Vicksburg;  now  they  were  marching  through  Geor- 
gia ;  now  they  were  at  Five  Forks.  Hilton  Clarke  appeared 
to  have  gone  away  somewhere.  He  was  scarcely  heard  amid 
all  this  thunder.  At  times,  it  is  true,  he  would  utter  some 
scornful  taunt,  not  levelled  at  the  North  only,  but  at  North 
and  South  combined  ;  for  indeed  he  might  well  be  confused  by 
all  the  gunpowder  smoke  and  noise.  But  even  here  he  was 
not  safe;  for  having  incidentally  remarked  that  it  was  not 
worth  disputing  about,  "for,  after  all,"  he  said,  "there  are 
only  two  kinds  of  Americans,  plain  and  colored,  and  for  my 
part  I  prefer  the  colored  variety,"  he  was  immediately  pursued 
by  his  relentless  enemy,  who  upbraided  him  for  making  use  of 
those  idle  little  quips  and  taunts  that  made  such  mischief  be- 
tween countries.  The  flippant  article  was  very  easy  to  write ; 
and  the  writer  pocketed  his  three  guineas ;  and  then  it  went 
out  and  was  quoted  all  over  America  as  an  expression  of  Eng- 
lish jealousy.  He  undertook  to  say  that  Clarke  had  never  been 
in  America;  he  undertook  to  say  that  he  had  never  known 
twenty  Americans  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life — 

Now  there  is  no  saying  how  far  this  discussion  might  have 
gone,  or  how  fierce  it  might  have  become;  but  Mr.  Scobell 
made  a  remark.  And  when  a  capitalist  speaks,  literary  per- 
sons are  silent. 

"  I  was  once  in  America,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  pause. 


A  HIGH  CONCLAVE.  21 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Mx*.  GiflPord,  regarding  him  with  interest. 

"Yes  ?"  said  his  host,  witli  a  pleasant  and  inquu-ing  smile. 

But  it  appeared  that  that  was  all.  He  had  contributed  his 
share  to  the  conversation;  and  accordingly  he  returned  to  his 
plate.  Moreover,  what  he  had  contributed  was  valuable;  it 
was  actual  fact,  which  there  was  no  gainsaying. 

But  whatever  interest  this  dispute  may  have  had  for  young 
Fitzgerald  as  indicative  of  the  characters  of  the  disputants 
(that  is  to  say,  supposing  him  to  have  had  the  audacity  to  at- 
tempt to  take  the  measure  of  two  such  distinguished  men), 
what  followed  turned  out  to  have  a  far  more  immediate  and 
personal  importance  for  him.  The  champagne,  which  had 
been  rather  long  in  coming,  had  now  been  passed  round  twice 
by  the  soft-footed  Fiammetta;  a  mellower  atmosphere  per- 
vaded the  room;  Mr.  Gifford  was  laughing  pleasantly  at  a  lit- 
tle joke  of  his  host's ;  and  the  round,  clear,  staring  eyes  of  the 
capitalist— whose  face,  by-tlie-way,  had  grown  even  a  little 
redder,  so  that  the  short  yellow-white  whiskers  and  mustache 
and  eyebrows  looked  as  if  they  were  afire — beamed  in  the  most 
benign  manner  on  all  and  sundry.  This  was  the  time  chosen 
by  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  to  unfold  the  journalistic  scheme  which 
had  been  the  fons  et  origo  of  this  little  dinner  party. 

"  Yovi  see,  I  want  your  advice,  Gilford,"  he  said,  "and  Mr. 
Scobell  won't  mind  my  repeating  some  details  that  he  and  I 
have  gone  over  together.  What  I  propose  is  a  shilling  weekly 
— addressed  to  the  wealthier  classes,  of  course,  but  rather  with 
a  view  to  country  houses.  However,  I  shovild  publish  at  three 
o'clock  on  Saturday,  so  that  London  peoj)le  could  have  the 
magazine  by  post,  while  the  country  people  would  get  it  in 
their  Sunday  morning  bag.  There  might  be  a  summary  of 
Renter's  telegrams  up  to  the  latest  hour  on  Saturday  ;  other- 
wise, no  news  ;  and  above  all,  no  politics.  The  prominence 
given  to  politics  in  English  newspapers  is  founded  on  a  delu- 
sion— wait  a  minute,  Gilford ;  let  me  have  my  scheme  out.  I 
say  that  the  space  given  to  politics  in  the  newspapers  is  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  interest  taken  in  politics  by  any  ordinary 
English  household.  Outside  political  circles — I  mean  apart 
from  those  who  are  actually  concerned  in  politics  oi'  in  writing 
about  them — take  any  household  you  like,  and  for  one  who  is 
deeply  interested  in  politics,  you  will  find  four  who  don't  care 


22  SHANDON  BELLS. 

a  brass  farthing  about  them.  Well,  I  propose  to  address  the 
four.  But  even  the  fifth,  mind  you,  though  he  may  imagine 
himself  responsible  for  the  empire,  might  have  anxious 
thoughts  as  to  whether  he  should  take  such  and  such  a  deer 
forest  in  Scotland  for  the  autumn,  or  whether  he  should  hire 
a  steam-yacht  and  take  his  family-  for  a  cruise  about  the  Chan- 
nel Islands,  or  whether,  supposing  he  took  such  and  such  a 
country  house  from  October  till  Christmas,  there  would  be  as 
many  pheasants  this  year  as  figured  in  last  year's  bag,  and  so 
on;  and  he  might  be  very  glad,  on  the  Sunday  morning,  to  sit 
down  with  his  after-breakfast  cigar  in  the  veranda,  you  know, 
and  studj'^  this  honest  shilling  counsellor — " 

"Oh,"  said  Gifford,  "that  kind  of  thing.  But  there  is  the 
Field.     There  is  Land  and  Water — " 

"  Pardon  me,  this  will  be  quite  different,"  said  Hilton  Clarke, 
composedly.  ' '  I  proi)ose  to  have  a  series  of  agents — yachting 
men,  sportsmen,  anglers,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — who  will  at 
their  leisure  send  in  faithful  and  unadorned  descriptions  of 
anything  they  find  that  is  worth  having ;  so  that  Paterfamilias, 
instead  of  reading  advertisements  that  he  can't  believe,  will 
have  a  lot  of  things  offered  to  him— a  brace  of  perfectly  disci- 
plined settei'S,  a  thorough-bred  hunter,  half  a  mile  of  salmon- 
fishing  in  Ireland,  a  shooting-box  in  the  Highlands,  anything, 
in  shoi't,  connected  with  those  delightful  dreams  of  holidays 
that  fill  up  the  idle  time  on  Sundays  with  so  many  folk ;  and 
he  will  know  that  he  can  safely  depend  on  these  being  as  they 
are  described.  In  fact,  I  don't  know  that  we  might  not  have  a 
number  of  supernumerary  agents,  so  that  a  man,  writing  to  the 
office,  could  have  one  of  these  sent  on  commission,  and  so  make 
sure,  for  example,  that  the  fine  bag  he  had  heard  of  as  having 
been  made  last  year  on  a  particular  shooting  did  not  mean 
that  the  outgoing  tenant  had  cleared  every  head  of  game  oif 
the  place.  The  difficulty  will  be  to  get  perfectly  trustworthy 
agents.  We  shall  be  above  suspicion,  for  we  shall  take  no 
fees,  no  commissions.     The  men  must  be  well  paid — " 

"Eight,"  said  Scobell,  and  there  was  instant  attention.  But 
that  was  all.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  silence ;  he 
had  said  all  he  had  thought  necessary  to  say. 

"My  dear  Gifford,  not  an  ortolan?"  Hilton  Clarke  ob- 
served, with  calm  surprise.      "Fitzgerald,  pass  the  Burgundy 


A  HIGH  CONCLAVE.  23 

— gently,  man !"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  displeasure,  for  Fitzger- 
ald had  giipped  the  basket  with  his  muscular  fingers  as  if  it 
were  the  stock  of  a  bi-eech-loader.  "And  for  this  section,"  he 
continued, ' '  of  course  what  is  wanted  is  a  good  sub-editor,  who 
Avill  put  the  reports  into  decent  English,  and  who  w^on't  let  the 
printers  make  a  fool  of  us.  Besides,  he  must  know  something 
of  out-of-door  sports — he  must  know  a  good  deal  more  than  I 
do — or  we  shall  be  made  ridiculous.  I  think  it  was  rather 
lucky,  then,  that  I  ran  against  my  friend  Fitzgerald  here,  for 
if  you  can  persuade  him,  Mr.  Scobell,  to  take  the  place,  he  is 
the  very  man  for  it.  He  has  burned  powder  in  those  desolate 
Irish  bogs,  and  I  know  he  can  busk  a  fly.  And  then,  you  see, 
Fitzgerald,  it  needn't  take  up  anything  like  the  whole  of  your 
time.  You  might  be  going  on  with  more  pui'ely  literary  work 
quite  independently  of  it.  What  do  you  say  ? — or  would  you 
rather  consider  ?" 

"Oh,  I  should  be  very  glad,"  stammered  Fitzgerald,  with 
his  face  about  as  red  as  Mr.  Scobell's.  ' '  It  is  very  kind  of  you. 
I — I  don't  know  whether  I  could  do  the  work,  but  I  should  try 
my  best,  anyway — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  coolly.  "I  dare 
say  you  know  more  about  it  than  I  do.  As  to  terms,  perhaps 
this  isn't  the  place  to  discuss  these  details — " 

But  here  Mr.  Scobell  broke  in.  Here  he  had  a  right  to 
speak,  and  here  he  was  on  solid  ground. 

' '  I  leave  that  in  your  hands,  Clarke.  I  leave  that  to  you 
entirely.  I  want  the  paper  well  done.  I  want  it  to  be  a  gen- 
tlemanly paper.     I  don't  want  to  go  into  my  club  atid  have 

a  man  come  up  to  me  and  say,  'Scobell,  what  d d  Radical 

trash  that  is  in  your  paper!     I  wonder  you'd  own  a  d d 

Radical  paper!'  I  want  it  to  be  a  gentlemanly  paper,  and  I 
am  willing  to  pay  for  it.  I  want  it  to  be  well  printed,  on  good 
paper;  I  want  it  to  be  a  gentlemanly  looking  paper;  I  don't 
want,  when  I  go  into  sassiety,  to  have  people  sjjeaking  of  me 
as  the  owner  of  a  d d  Radical  print." 

"Oh,  of  course  not — of  course  not,"  said  Hilton  Clarke, 
somewhat  hastily.  "Thei^e  will  be  no  politics.  But  we  mu^st 
have  a  name.  I  have  botliered  my  head  for  the  last  fortnight 
about  it.  You  see,  I  must  have  it  known  that  the  paper  is  for 
Sunday  morning  or  for  Sunday ;  but  everything  I  have  tried 


24  SHANDON  BELLS, 

suggests  the  Sunday  at  Home  or  the  Day  of  Rest,  or  some- 
thing like  that.  I  thought  of  the  Sunday  Morning  Cigar; 
but  then  everybody  doesn't  smoke.  Tlie  After  -  Breakfast 
Cigar,  a  Sunday  Paper ;  that  has  the  same  objection.  The 
Country  Gentleman's  Guide;  that  is  too  long;  besides,  I 
want  to  appeal  to  the  whole  household,  and  to  town  house- 
holds also.     Well,  we  must  consider  that  by-and-by." 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  would  call  it  Jeshiirun,'"  said  Mr.  Gifford. 
"It  seems  to  me  you  ai*e  addressing  those  who  have  waxed  fat, 
and  taking  account  only  of  the  most  material  and  vulgar  luxu- 
ries.    There  is  not  a  word  of  any  intellectual  requirements — " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  his  host  said.  "I  have  only  de- 
scribed one  section  to  you.  I  mean  to  take  the  literary  section 
under  my  own  care.  Of  course  we  shall  have  essays;  touch- 
ing here  and  there  on  sport,  perhaps,  but  also  meant  to  have 
an  interest  for  the  ladies  in  the  house.  A  short  story  now 
and  again,  if  possible;  but  it  is  difficult  to  get  them  good;  it 
might  be  better  to  have  some  French  novel — such  as  Monsieur 
De  Camors — translated,  and  use  that  as  a  serial.  An  occa- 
sional bit  of  verse,  too,  or  a  ballade,  touching  affairs  of  the 
day.  Professor  Jewel  has  offered  me  a  series  of  translations 
from  Horace  partly  adapted  to  modern  affairs;  but  I  am  afraid 
that  has  been  done  too  often." 

' '  Don't  touch  them, "  said  Gifford,  with  decision.  ' '  Horace  is 
as  fatal  to  translators  as  Heine.  Both  are  quite  unmanageable. 
Look  how  Milton  made  a  fool  of  himself  with  the  fifth  Ode !" 

"What  ?"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  in  a  loud  voice;  and  even  Fitz- 
gerald stared. 

"Come,  you  must  not  speak  slightingly  of  the  equator,"  Hil- 
ton Clarke  said,  with  a  laugh. 

' '  Oh,  but  I  do  say  it  is  the  very  worst  translation  ever  made 
from  Horace,  or  from  anybody  else,"  Mr.  Gifford  insisted.  "It 
is  not  a  question  of  degree.  I  say  it  is  the  very  worst  trans- 
lation ever  made  from  anything;  for  it  starts  with  the  pri- 
mary defect  of  being  absolutely  unintelligible.  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  anybody  unacquamted  with  the  original  could 
make  the  slightest  sense  out  of  it — 

'  Who  now  enjoys  thee  credulous,  all  gold ; 
Who  always  vacant,  always  amiable, 
Hopes  thee,  of  flattering  gales 
Unmindful !' 


A  HIGH  CONCLAVE.  25 

Gracious  heavens !     And  then  the  measure — 

'  Who  now  enjoys  thee  credulous,  all  gold !' 

I  should  like  to  see  a  school-boy  try  to  make  that  scan,  to  say 
nothing  of  'credulous,  all  gold,'  certainly  leaving  in  the  mind 
the  impression  that  if  anybody  is  all  gold,  it  is  not  Pyrrha  at 
all,  but  the  ci'edulous  youth.  Now  the  gentleman  who  trans- 
lated Gretchen's  song  thus, 

'  My  peace  is  gone, 
My  heart  is  sore, 
I  find  him  never 
And  nevermore,' 

erred  in  the  other  direction,  for  he  wanted  to  make  it  quite 
clear  what  poor  Gretchen  was  sorrowing  about,  and  only  took 
a  liberty  with  a  little  si'e." 

"But  what  do  you  think  of  this  project  now,  Gilford  ?"  said 
Hilton  Clarke,  as  he  handed  round  cigars,  coffee  being  on  the 
table. 

Mr.  GifFord  took  a  cigar,  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  passed  his 
hand  through  the  thick  masses  of  his  raven-black  hair. 

"Not  much,"  said  he,  firmly.  "You  are  combining  op- 
posed tastes.  Sportsmen  are  not  as  a  rule  fond  of  intellectual 
pursuits.  Where  you  find  the  library  in  a  country  house 
turned  into  a  gun-room,  there  will  be  more  newly  made  car- 
tridges than  newly  published  books  about.  A  combination  of 
Colonel  Hawker  and  Joseph  Addison — " 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  don't  seem  to  see  that  I  am  ad- 
dressing different  persons.  I  am  addressing  the  whole  house- 
hold— the  father,  who  wants  to  invite  Lord  Somebody  or  other 
to  shoot  with  him  over  a  thoroughly  well-preserved  moor  in 
Scotland  ;  the  eldest  son,  who  hunts  ;  the  younger  son,  who 
wants  to  cut  a  dash  at  Cowes ;  the  mamma,  who  has  her  eye 
on  several  parties  she  could  make  up  if  only  she  had  a  pleasant 
country  house  for  the  winter ;  the  young  ladies,  who  would  be 
curious  about  a  translated  French  novel,  as  they  are  forbidden 
to  read  such  things  in  the  original.  You  see,  I  am  appealing 
to  the  wliole  household — " 

"Call  it  the  Household  Magazine,  then,"  said  Gilford. 

"I  will.  Thanks,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  calmly,  as  he  took 
out  a  beautifully  bound  little  note-book.  ' '  At  least  that  is 
better  than  anything  I  have  thought  of  as  yet." 


26  SHANDON  BELLS. 

And  so  Master  Willie  was  installed  as  tlie  sub-editor  of  a 
shilling  weekly  magazine.  But  that  was  not  the  only  event 
of  the  evening,  so  far  as  concerned  himself.  After  talking 
about  many  things,  until  the  gorgeous  colors  of  the  chamber 
were  pretty  well  subdued  by  a  haze  of  pale  blue  tobacco  smoke, 
they  chanced  to  touch  on  a  novel  which  had  just  then  been 
published  by  a  gentleman  holding  a  suboi*dinate  place  in  her 
Majesty's  government.  Rather,  it  had  been  published  some 
weeks  before,  anonymously,  and  no  notice  had  been  taken  of 
it;  now,  however,  a  second  edition  was  announced,  with  the 
name  of  the  Eight  Honorable  Spencer  Tollemache,  M.P.,  on 
the  title-page.  Then  editors  had  to  begin  and  overhaul  the  * 
piles  of  books  put  aside  as  adjudged  not  worth  a  review,  and 
so  Daphne's  Shadoiv  came  to  the  front  again. 

"Curious  idea  for  Spencer  Tollemache  to  write  a  novel,'' 
said  Hilton  Clarke.  ' '  His  History  of  the  '32  Reform  Bill  was 
very  well  spoken  of." 

"Ah ;  light  literature — relaxation — relaxation,"  said  Mr.  Sco- 
bell,  smiling  blandly — "relaxation  from  the  cares  of  state." 

GifFord  darted  an  almost  angry  glance  at  him. 

"  Light  literature  ?"  he  said,  somewhat  too  scornfully.  "  I 
suppose  you  mean  light  literature  as  distinguished  from  the 
heavy  literature  that  sinks  ?  My  dear  Mr.  Scobell,  where  are 
the  politicians  of  the  time  of  Homer  ?  Where  are  the  learned 
treatises  they  wrote  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  light  literature — 
imaginative  literature — pure  story-telling — absolute  fiction — is 
the  only  really  permanent  thing  of  man's  invention  in  the 
world.  The  Siege  of  Troy,  the  Wanderings  of  Ulysses,  the 
Arabian  Nights,  Shakspeare's  plays,  Don  Quixote,  Robinson 
Crusoe,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield — more  than  that,  the  children's 
fairy  tales  that  have  an  antiquity  beyond  anything  that  can 
be  guessed  at — all  pure  fiction — these  are  the  things  that  re- 
main; these  are  the  things  that  the  whole  world  treasures; 
while  your  heavy  literature  sinks  into  the  bog." 

He  was  quite  as  vehement  about  this  chance  topic  as  he  had 
been  about  the  American  war. 

"  You  may  call  them  will-o'-the-wisps,  if  you  like;  they  are 
not  to  be  caught  and  cooked ;  but  they  remain  to  delight  the 
curiosity  and  imagination  of  men,  flickering  and  beautiful; 
while  far  more  useful  works — solid  and  substantial  works — 


A  HIGH  CONCLAVE.  27 

have  gone  down  into  the  morass,  and  the  centuries  have  closed 
over  them.  People  see  too  much  of  the  meaner  side  of  what 
is  around  them ;  they  wish  to  hear  of  nobler  things ;  they  like  a 
touch  of  rose-color,  of  the  wonderful,  the  supernatural,  added 
to  the  common  things  of  life.  If  a  child  had  never  been  told 
about  fairies,  it  would  invent  fairies.  And  you  talk  of  Spen- 
cer ToUemache  as  turning  to  this  kind  of  work  for  relaxa- 
tion ?  Perhaps  he  may.  I  never  read  his  History  of  the 
Reform  Bill;  but  if  he  thinks  it  easier  to  create  imaginary 
human  beings,  and  give  them  definite  and  natural  form,  and 
make  them  the  brothers  and  sisters  and  intimate  friends  of  the 
people  who  are  actually  alive  in  the  world — if  he  thinks  it  is 
easier  to  do  that  than  to  go  to  Parliamentary  reports  and  Blue- 
books  and  get  together  a  useful  compilation  of  easily  ascertain- 
ed facts,  then  perhaps  he  may  find  himself  mistaken.  Per- 
haps he  has  already  found  himself  mistaken.  By  Jove !  it's 
eleven  o'clock." 

Good  luck  seemed  to  pursue  Fitzgerald  this  evening.  When 
Mr.  Scobell  drove  away  in  his  carriage,  the  remaining  two 
guests  left  together  on  foot ;  and  as  they  walked  along  Picca- 
dilly, Mr.  GifPord  must  needs  continue  talking  about  the  Un- 
der-Secretary's novel  and  the  capitalist's  chance  remark.  You 
may  imagine  that  young  Fitzgerald  was  in  no  hurry  to  inter- 
rupt him.  To  be  walking  with  Mr.  Gifford  was  a  sufficient 
honor ;  to  listen  to  this  vehement,  combative,  and  occasionally 
brilliant  and  incisive  talk  was  something  that  the  provincial 
sub-editor  had  never  dared  to  hope  for  in  this  world.  They 
walked  all  the  way  to  Sloane  Street  (Master  Willie  would  have 
kept  on  to  Jeiaisalem,  had  not  his  companion  stopped),  when 
Mr.  Gifford  said  to  him : 

"You  live  in  the  Fulham  Road,  you  said?  My  rooms  are 
close  by  here.  I  have  been  thinking  now  that  if  you  didn't 
mind  trying  your  hand  at  a  review  of  that  novel  I  was  speak- 
ing of,  you  might  let  me  have  it  by  Thursday  night.  Hilton 
Clarke  showed  me  some  things  of  yours.  You  are  on  the 
right  road;  don't  fall  in  with  that  affected  indifferentism; 
you'll  find  too  much  of  it  in  London.  Remember  Bishop 
Blougram : 

'  What  can  I  gain  on  the  denying  side  ? 
Ice  makes  no  conflagration.' 


28  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Your  writing  isn't  quite  clean  enough  yet.  You  go  round- 
about. You  don't  hit  the  nail  shar^j  and  have  done.  No  mat- 
ter; if  you  like  to  try  your  hand,  you  may  have  the  book." 

"But,"  said  Fitzgerald,  almost  deprived  of  breath — "but 
you  don't  mean  for  the  Liberal  Review  f 

"Of  course  I  do." 

Now  if  at  this  moment  the  pavement  at  the  corner  of  Sloane 
Street  had  opened,  and  if  Master  Willie  had  beheld  there  a 
subterranean  pi'ocession  of  Don  Fierna  and  all  his  array  of 
elves — passing  along  in  blue  fire  through  grottoes  of  feldspar 
gemmed  with  rubies  and  diamonds — he  could  not  have  been 
more  astounded.  That  he  should  be  asked  to  write  for  the 
Liberal  Review;  and  to  write  about  a  book,  too,  that  was  at 
the  moment  occupying  so  much  of  the  attention  of  the  public  I 
He  could  scarcely  find  words  to  express  his  sense  of  his  com- 
panion's great  kindness,  and  of  his  own  fears  about  his  being 
unable  to  undertake  such  a  task. 

"But  I  don't  say  I  will  use  the  article,  mind,"  said  Mr.  Gif- 
ford,  good-naturedly.  "I  will  give  you  the  chance,  if  you 
will  take  the  risk.  It  may  be  some  training  for  you,  in  any 
case.  If  you  call  or  send  to  the  office  to-morrow,  you  will 
find  the  book  waiting  for  you.  Good-night.  Glad  to  have 
met  you." 

Was  Kitty  awake  yet  ?  Could  she  hear  the  news  ?  Could 
she  tell  how  high  his  heart  was  beating  ? — poor  Kitty,  who  was 
so  far  away  at  Inisheen  I 


A  FIRST  CAST.  29 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  FIRST  CAST. 

Fitzgerald  did  not  get  to  sleep  soon  that  night.  As  he 
walked  rapidly  away  down  the  Fulham  Road,  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  five-and-thirty  different  ways  of  beginning  this  fateful  re- 
view were  pressing  in  on  his  mind,  and  that  he  had  lost  all 
power  to  decide  which  was  preferable.  If  he  could  have  seen 
but  the  first  page  of  the  novel,  it  might  have  given  him  some 
clew,  perhaps.  But  here  he  was  eagerly  and  anxiously  sketch- 
ing out  plans  for  reviewing  a  book  of  the  contents  of  which  he 
was  wholly  ignorant;  and  it  appeared  to  him  as  if  his  brain 
had  got  the  better  of  him  altogether,  and  was  running  ahead 
in  this  aimless,  distracted,  and  fruitless  fashion  quite  independ- 
ently of  his  control. 

At  length  he  reached  a  dimly  lit  little  court-yard  in  the 
Fulham  Road,  on  one  side  of  which  stood  a  plain  two-storied 
building.  The  ground-floor  consisted  of  a  large  studio;  the 
upper  floor  served  as  a  bedroom,  and  that  Fitzgerald  had 
secured  as  his  lodging.  He  went  carefully  up  the  outside 
stair,  unlocked  the  door,  lit  a  match  and  then  a  lamp,  and  here 
he  was  in  the  middle  of  a  fairly  large  low-roofed  apartment, 
somewhat  scantily  furnished,  but  quite  sufficiently  so  for  all 
his  wants.  The  floor  was  for  the  most  part  bare;  and  here 
and  there  was  a  bit  of  faded  Turkey  carpet  or  a  withered  old 
rug  which  had  most  likely  been  flung  out  from  the  studio  be- 
low as  being  even  too  worn  and  decayed  for  i^ainting  purposes. 

It  was  a  fine  place  to  think  in,  for  there  were  few  tempta- 
tions in  the  way  of  luxury  about;  and  he  had  plenty  to  think 
of:  the  projected  magazine;  Kitty's  surprise  on  hearing  the 
good  news;  the  wonderful  evening  he  had  just  spent,  and  the 
strange  contrast  between  the  two  great  men;  nay,  precise  con- 
versation of  which  he  could  remember  every  word :  all  these 
things  were  enough  to  occupy  him ;  but  nearer  than  any  of 
them  came  this  pressing  matter  of  the  review.  What  a  chance 
it  was!     And  they  said  that  London  was  an  unfriendly  city) 


30  SHANDON   BELLS. 

Now  it  could  not  be  any  interest  in  salmon  flies  that  had  led 
Mr.  GifPord  to  place  this  opportunity  before  one  who  was  quite 
unknown  to  him.  True,  Mr.  GifFord  had  seen  certain  excerpts 
from  the  Cork  Chronicle  which  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  had  asked 
to  be  intrusted  with.  (N.B. — What  would  Kitty  say  to  this? 
Was  not  that  the  act  of  a  friend  ?)  But  Fitzgerald  had  a  great 
distrust  of  himself;  he  had  not  regarded  these  things  as  of 
much  value ;  and  certainly  he  had  never  thought  they  would 
entitle  him  to  have  the  chance  given  him  of  contributing  to 
the  Liberal  Revietc. 

At  this  moment  all  his  thinking  went  clean  out  of  his  head ; 
for  there  was  a  tremendous  noise  below — the  noise  of  a  power- 
ful, raucous  bass  voice  that  bellowed,  or  rather  that  rattled  with 
the  rattle  of  small  drums — 

"Should  mild  acquaintance  be  forrrrr-got — " 

"  There's  that  brute  begun  again,"  said  Fitzgerald  to  himself 
with  a  groan. 

But  the  brute,  whoever  he  was,  seemed  to  have  no  intention 
of  continuing  the  song.  There  was  a  dead  silence,  in  the 
course  of  which  Fitzgerald  speedily  recovered  his  thoughts 
again. 

And  first  of  all  he  was  determined  that,  if  the  book  gave  him 
any  fair  excuse,  the  review  should  be  a  friendly  and  good- 
natured  one.  For  he  had  carefully  noted  certain  remarks 
(what  had  he  not  carefully  noted  during  that  momentous  even- 
ing?) that  Mr.  Gifford  had  addressed  to  Hilton  Clarke  with  re- 
gard to  the  projected  magazine. 

"  For  one  thing,  my  friend,"  Mr.  GifPord  had  said,  bending 
his  keen  eyes  on  the  tall  blonde-bearded  gentleman  opposite 
him,  "  I  would  advise  you,  in  going  over  to  this  new  thing,  to 
leave  behind  you  the  afFected  pessimism  of  the  Weekly  Ga- 
zette.''' (This  was  a  weekly  journal  to  which  Mr.  Hilton 
Clarke  was  understood  to  contribute.)  "That  continual  belit- 
tling of  things,  that  continual  discontent  with  everything  that 
tvxrns  up  in  politics,  or  literatui'e,  or  art,  does  not  pay.  It  is 
not  wise.  When  the  public  find  you  always  discontented,  al- 
ways looking  at  the  hopeless  side  of  things,  alwaj'S  declaring 
that  everything  is  going  to  the  bad,  they  begin  to  suspect  that 
you  have  reaso^  for  this  discontent — in  other  words,  that  your 


A  FIRST  CAST.  31 

circulation  is  decreasing.  Now  that  is  a  fatal  impression.  Be- 
sides, people  will  not  read  a  paper  that  fills  them  with  gloom. 
Nor  can  you  bully  the  public  with  impunity.  It  is  no  use  at- 
tacking them,  and  scolding  them,  or  treatmg  them  with  scorn 
and  contempt.  You  see,  the  public  have  simply  to  leave  you 
unread,  and  that  is  a  terrible  business ;  for  then,  you  perceive, 
you  can  not  hurt  them,  but  they  do  hurt  you." 

"I  should  have  thought,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  with  a  gentle 
smile,  ' '  that  the  circulation  of  the  Weekly  Gazette  was  some- 
what bigger,  a  little  bit  bigger,  than  that  of  the  Liberal  Re- 
vieiv.''^ 

"Yes;  no  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  the  other,  cheerfully, 
' '  though  I  am  in  hopes  of  seeing  their  relative  positions  re- 
versed some  day.  But  that  is  my  advice  to  you.  That  tone  of 
disappointment  with  everything  makes  people  begin  to  think 
that  you  are  not  getting  on  as  well  as  you  might  be ;  and  that 
is  very  bad.  Then  the  advertisers.  Mind  you,  the  advertisers 
are  also  vertebrate  animals,  and  they  make  up  a  considerable 
proportion  of  the  public.  And  if  you  go  on  from  week  to  week 
declaring  that  British  tradesmen  are  universally  swindlers, 
that  railway  directors  should  be  indicted  for  w^illful  murder, 
and  so  forth,  mind  you,  your  advertising  agent  may  have  a  bad 
time  of  it.  Say  he  goes  into  a  big  cutlery  place  in  Oxford 
Street.  The  foreman  goes  up  to  the  master :  '  Here  is  the  ad- 
vertisement man  from  the  Weekly  Gazette,  sir.  He  wants  us 
to  take  the  outside  page  next  week.'  Then  very  likely  the  cut- 
ler may  turn  round  and  say :  '  The  Weekly  Gazette  be  hanged ! 
Tell  him  that  swindling  isn't  paying  well  just  now,  and  we 
can't  advertise.  Swindlers,  indeed!  Swindlers  themselves! 
The  Weekly  Gazette  be  hanged !' " 

Now  this  advice,  though  it  seemed  to  young  Fitzgerald  at 
the  time  to  be  not  quite  in  accordance  with  the  ruat  coeliim 
principles  professed  by  the  Liberal  Review  (which  was  a  very 
courageous  and  vehement  and  plain-spoken  organ),  neverthe- 
less appeared  to  him  to  be  sound  and  sensible.  Accordingly, 
he  now  resolved  that,  if  the  merits  of  the  book  permitted  it  at 
all,  he  would  treat  it  in  the  most  friendly  fashion.  Instead  of 
scourging  him  with  rods  from  out  the  groves  of  Academe,  the 
Liberal  Review  would  take  this  new  disciple  by  the  hand,  and 
encourage  him,  and  bid  him  be  of  good  cheer.     Or  what  if  the 


32  SHANDON  BELLS. 

book  were  very  good  indeed,  and  altogether  beyond  need  of 
patronage  ?  Then  let  literature  be  congratulated  on  this  new 
adhesion.  Fitzgerald  remembered  that  the  Liberal  Revieiv 
was  rather  fond  of  making  discoveries.  No  reviews  of  the 
book,  at  least  of  any  importance,  had  appeared,  though  people 
were  talking  enough  about  it.  Might  not  he  be  the  first  to  an- 
nounce the  advent  of  a  new  power  in  literature  ?  If  he  only 
had  the  book — here — at  once — 

^^  And  never  brought  to  mind?" 

Again  came  the  giant  roar  from  below.  And  what  a  tena- 
cious memox-y  the  musician  must  have  !  was  Fitzgerald's  first 
thought,  ten  minutes  certainly  having  elapsed  since  he  sung 
the  first  line.  And  surely  there  must  be  some  shaft  or  open- 
ing in  the  floor;  otherwise  the  sound  could  not  come  through 
in  such  volume.  And  what  if  perchance  that  shaft  should  be 
over  the  musician's  head,  on  which  a  bucket  of  water  might  be 
made  to  descend  suddenly  at  the  next  bellow ! 

But  there  was  to  be  no  more  bellowing,  except,  indeed,  a 
verse  of  the  national  anthem,  which  Fitzgerald  had  already 
learned  to  recognize  as  the  token  that  the  artist  was  about  to 
retire  for  the  night,  pleased  or  not,  as  the  case  might  be,  with 
his  work.  ^'Go-o-od  sa-ave  the  Qu-e-e-n  f^  roai^ed  the  deep 
bass  voice  in  dying  cadence  ;  then  there  was  a  curious  clamp- 
ing and  shuffling,  as  if  some  one  were  doing  a  heel-and-toe 
step  on  a  wooden  floor;  then  silence.  Either  the  artist  was 
having  a  final  pipe,  or  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

Next  morning  eleven  o'clock  was  the  earliest  hour  at  which 
Fitzgerald  deemed  it  fitting  he  should  go  to  the  office  of  the 
Liberal  Revieiv  for  the  book  ;  and  even  then  he  did  not  think 
it  probable  that  Mr.  Gifford  could  have  sent  a  message  so  soon. 
To  his  surprise,  however,  there  the  precious  parcel  was  await- 
ing him ;  and  so  eager  was  he  to  see  what  sort  of  material  this 
was  on  which  he  was  to  operate  that  the  moment  he  got  on  the 
top  of  the  first  passing  Fulham  omnibus  he  hastily  undid  the 
parcel,  put  two  volumes  in  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  to  cut  the 
leaves  of  the  other.  He  glanced  over  the  first  page  or  two — 
very  good  :  a  sort  of  playful  introduction,  light,  facetious,  well 
written ;  in  short,  a  clever  little  essay  about  a  country  house 
and  its  guests  in  the  hunting  season.     But  the  reviewer  was 


A   FIRST  CAST.  33 

more  anxious  to  get  to  the  people;  and  these  turned  out  to  be, 
in  the  first  instance,  the  three  daughters  of  a  duchess,  who 
were  at  the  same  moment  in  their  respective  dressing-rooms, 
and  each  imj)arting  confidences  to  her  maid.  It  was  inge- 
niously arranged  that  these  confidences  should  be  reported  in 
turn;  and  there  was  a  very  comical  similai'ity  among  them, 
seeing  that  they  all  referred  to  a  youthful  marquis  of  vast  pos- 
sessions who  was  to  arrive  at  the  house  that  evening,  and  to 
the  probable  effect  on  him  of  certain  costumes  and  styles  of 
dressing  the  hair. 

Now  Fitzgerald  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  the  habits  of 
a  "stand"  of  golden  plover  than  about  the  ways  and  speech  of 
duchesses'  daughters;  but  he  soon  began  to  form  the  impres- 
sion, and  much  to  his  disappointment,  that  all  this  artificial 
talk,  clever  as  it  might  be,  was  entirely  impossible  in  the  cir- 
cumstances. Nay,  he  began  to  feel  just  a  touch  of  resentment 
that  three  young  Englishwomen  of  good  birth  and  breeding 
should  have  been  represented  as  exhibiting  themselves,  to  their 
own  domestics,  as  so  many  fiippant  and  giggling  bar-maids. 
It  is  true  that  Fitzgerald's  father  kept  a  small  country  hotel 
(and  even  that  he  did  unsuccessfully),  but  the  Fitzgeralds  of 
Inisheen  were  an  old  family,  and  had  always  been  held  of 
consequence  in  that  part  of  Ireland ;  Master  Willie  had  been 
accustomed  all  liis  life  to  be  addressed  as  "yer  honor"  when 
out  over  bog  and  hill  in  search  of  game;  and  was  himself  pos- 
sessed of  not  a  little  faith  in  the  virtues  of  lineage  and  good 
blood.  And  was  it  possible,  he  almost  indignantly  asked  him- 
self, that  any  three  young  Englishwomen  of  decent  parentage 
and  education — putting  the  duchess  out  of  the  question  alto- 
gether— should  have  so  little  self-respect  as  to  make  confi- 
dantes of  their  maids  in  this  fashion,  and  reveal  their  mean 
little  schemes  with  the  pertness  of  a  soubrette  in  a  fifth-rate 
farce  ? 

He  passed  on,  however,  in  hope.  The  marquis  arrives  just 
in  time  to  be  sent  off  to  dress  for  dinner.  Then  the  people  of 
the  neighborhood  who  are  coming  to  dine  were  introduced; 
and  here  there  was  some  very  fair  humorous  sketching  of  a 
light  kind,  Fitzgerald  marking  down  one  or  two  passages  for 
approval.  He  read  on  and  on,  until  he  arrived  at  the  coui't- 
yard.    He  read  on  and  on  (not  so  hopeful  now),  while  his  land- 


34  SHANDON  BELLS. 

lady  brought  him  a  chop,  some  bread,  and  a  glass  of  ale — his 
mid-day  meal.  He  scarcely  paid  heed  to  these  things,  so  busy 
was  he  "with  this  book — so  anxious  to  make  something  out  of  it 
— so  disappointed  at  finding,  with  all  the  occasional  smartness, 
the  characters  not  flesh-and-blood  creatures  at  all,  but  mere 
ghosts.  The  dry  bones  would  not  live.  By  four  o'clock  he 
had  finished  the  book ;  and  he  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh. 

Yet  out  of  it  he  had  to  make  an  article  somehow ;  more  than 
that,  he  was  determined  to  have  it  done  that  very  night,  so 
that  the  editor  of  the  Liberal  Review  should  see  that  he  could 
do  his  work  promptly.  So  he  set  to  woi'k  forthwith;  and 
labored  and  labored  away  to  make  something  out  of  the  dry 
husks.  Fortunately  the  bellowing  gentleman  beneath  was 
absent;  and  he  could  work  on  in  silence.  The  hours  passed; 
he  had  a  cup  of  tea.  Finally,  after  much  correction  and  re- 
writing, he  had  a  piece  of  work  put  together  which,  if  it  did 
not  form  a  highly  interesting  article,  was,  he  thought,  as  fair  a 
judgment  of  the  book  as  he  could  give. 

Just  then,  it  being  nearly  nine  o'clock,  the  last  post  brought 
him  a  letter,  which  he  eagerly  seized,  for,  though  he  had  heard 
from  Kitty  that  morning,  might  she  not  have  taken  it  into 
her  head — at  the  suggestion  of  her  tender  heart — to  send  him 
another  little  note  by  some  strange  means  ?  But  this  turned 
out  to  be  from  his  father. 

"My  DEAR  Willie, — That  blackguard  Maloney — the  devil 
sweep  him ! — won't  renew  the  bill  I  told  you  of,  and  he's  going 
to  put  his  low  scoundrel  of  a  brother  on  to  have  the  law  of 
me  if  I  don't  have  the  £40  ready  by  Tuesday  next.  I  have 
tried  to  raise  the  money,  but  devil  the  penny  can  I  get  of  it. 
Have  you  any  money  you  could  spare  ?  'Tis  a  mean  trick  of 
Maloney's:  sure  many's  the  time  I've  helped  his  old  grandfa- 
ther when  he  hadn't  as  much  clothes  on  his  back  as  would 
have  lifted  the  kettle  from  the  fire.  Bad  luck  to  him,  'tis  all 
because  my  Marshal  McMahon  beat  his  old  scarecrow  of  a 
Galloper  at  Drimoleague.     Your  affectionate  father, 

"Edward  Fitzgerald." 

Master  Willie  had  arrived  in  London  with  £38  in  his  pocket ; 
and  that  was  the  total  of  his  worldlv  wealth.     Had  this  letter 


A  FIRST  CAST.  35 

come  at  any  other  moment,  it  is  possible  he  might  have  thought 
it  hard  he  should  have  to  part  with  that  sum,  or  rather  the 
greater  part  of  it,  to  pay  his  father's  Coursing  Club  debts. 
But  what  did  he  care  for  a  few  sovereigns  when  a  fine  career 
had  just  been  opened  before  him,  with  no  other  than  Kitty  as 
the  final  crown  and  blushing  and  beautiful  reward  ?  Here 
was  his  first  contribution  to  the  Liberal  Review  ready  to  be 
deposited  in  the  letter-box.  To-morrow  he  was  to  see  Mr. 
Hilton  Clarke  about  the  sub-editorship  of  the  new  magazine. 
And  this  morning  what  was  the  message,  written  in  that 
sprawling  but  most  lovable  hand! — "O  Willie  darling,  make 
haste  and  get  on,  and  come  back  to  me !  And  if  your  fine 
friend  introduces  you  to  any  of  the  beautiful  London  ladies, 
'  just  tell  them  there's  a  poor  girl  in  Ireland  that  is  breaking 
her  heart  for  your  sake. '  "  No ;  it  was  not  at  such  a  moment 
he  was  going  to  consider  the  question  of  a  few  pounds. 
So  he  wrote : 

"My  dear  Father,— I  have  altogether  now  £38,  of  which 
I  send  you  £30,  for  I  must  keep  a  small  margin.  Then  you 
can  bring*  my  gun  to  Lord  Kinsale's  new  agent  (I  forget  his 
name),  who  offered  me  £6  for  it  when  he  knew  I  was  going 
away.  The  other  £4  you  will  make  up  somehow;  but  don't 
sell  old  Bess ;  she  and  I  may  still  live  to  have  another  turn  at 
the  snipe  some  day.  I  think  I  have  a  good  prospect  here; 
more  particulars  by-and-by.     Your  affectionate  son, 

"William  Fitzgerald." 

That  letter,  of  course,  he  could  not  send  off  just  then:  the 
money  had  to  be  made  transferable  first.  But  here  was  this 
other  one  for  Mr.  Gifford — which  from  time  to  time  he  regard- 
ed with  a  qualm  of  anxiety,  not  quite  certain  that,  after  all,  he 
had  done  his  best.  However,  he  resolved  that  it  was  now  too 
late  for  doubt ;  he  took  it  up,  sallied  forth  into  the  night, 
sought  out  the  nearest  pillar  letter-box,  and  there  deposited  the 
fateful  packet.  That  decisive  step  once  taken,  his  heart  felt 
somewhat  lighter.     The  night  was  fine,  and  he  went  on  aim- 

*  He  meant  "take."  But  Master  Willie  had  not  quite  got  rid  of  all  his 
Irishisms,  despite  his  study  of  the  style  of  the  Liberal  Review. 


36  SHANDON   BELLS, 

lessly  wandering  along  the  gas-lit  pavements,  thinking  of 
many  things,  but  mostly  of  Inisheen,  and  perhaps  most  of  all 
of  an  inland  glen  not  far  from  there,  and  of  running  Avater, 
and  of  a  certain  moonlight  night.  Was  not  this  Kitty's  soft, 
low,  trembling  voice  he  could  hear  again  in  the  silence  ? — ^^  My 
love  I  give  to  you;  my  life  I  pledge  to  you;  my  heart  I  take 
not  back  from  you,  ivhile  this  ivater  runs.''''  And  pei'haps  she 
also — far  away  there  beyond  the  sea,  up  in  the  little  room  over- 
looking the  wide  sands — w^as  recalling  these  words  at  this  mo- 
ment; and  perhaps  also  shivering  a  little  as  she  thought  of  Don 
Fierna  and  his  elves  ? 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  he  returned  to  the  dim 
little  court-yard ;  and  he  was  very  tu*ed ;  and  perhaps  the  lone- 
liness of  this  great  dark  world  of  London  was  beginning  to 
weigh  on  him;  so  that  he  was  glad  to  think  of  his  escape  into 
the  realms  of  sleep  (where  Kitty  was  sometimes  found  walkmg 
about,  with  her  soft  black  eyes  laughing,  and  her  voice  as  glad 
as  ever).  But,  as  it  turned  out,  his  adventures  for  that  night 
were  not  just  yet  over. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 


Fitzgerald  was  just  about  to  pass  through  the  archway 
leading  into  the  court-yard,  when  he  heard  a  sudden  scuffling 
in  front  of  him,  and  then  a  man's  voice  call  out,  "  Help !  help ! 
police!"  Instinctively  he  paused;  for  he  had  no  mind  to  en- 
ter into  other  people's  squabbles;  and,  besides,  he  could  not 
well  see  what  was  going  on.  But  his  appearance  on  the  scene 
had  no  doubt  produced  some  effect;  for  before  he  had  had 
time  to  think,  a  man  had  dashed  past  him.  Fitzgerald  was 
in  truth  bewildered;  he  had  been  dreaming  of  Inisheen,  not 
thinking  of  midnight  robberies  in  London.  And  now  he  was 
inclined  to  let  well  alone,  and  thank  God  he  was  rid  of  a 
knave,  when  another  dark  figure  dashed  by — quite  close  by, 
indeed — and  at  the  same  moment  he  felt  a  sharp  blow  on  his 
face.  This  was  too  much.  This  brought  him  to  his  senses. 
He  did  not  know  exactly  where  he  had  been  struck;  but  he 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  39 

knew  that  his  face  was  tingling;  he  knew  that  he  had  a  stout 
oak  staff  in  his  hand,  with  a  formidable  knob  at  the  end  of  it; 
and  the  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  he  was  in  full  chase 
down  the  Fulham  Koad  with  the  most  unchristian-like  de- 
termination to  give  as  good  as  he  had  got,  or  even  better. 

The  first  man  had  disappeared,  but  this  one  was  just  ahead ; 
and  Fitzgerald  was  well  aware  that  his  only  chance  was  to 
overtake  the  fellow  before  he  could  dodge  into  some  by-way 
or  corner.  Now  the  thief,  or  burglai',  or  whoever  he  was,  ran 
very  well,  but  his  muscles  had  not  had  that  training  over  rock 
and  heather  that  his  pursuer's  had,  and  the  consequence  was 
that  in  a  very  short  space  of  time  young  Fitzgerald  had  so 
nearly  overtaken  his  man  (and  was  so  fearful  of  letting  him 
escape)  that  he  aimed  a  blow  at  the  back  of  the  fellow's  head 
with  his  stout  oak  staff.  The  next  minute  Master  Willie  had 
nearly  fallen  over  the  body  of  his  prostrate  foe;  for  down  he 
had  come,  after  that  sounding  whack,  prone  on  the  j)avement, 
where  he  lay  without  a  sign  of  life. 

Then  a  third  man  came  rushing  up ;  and  Fitzgerald  faced 
about,  feeling  now  rather  angry,  and  inclined  to  have  it  out 
with  the  rogues  of  London  generally.  But  he  instantly  per- 
ceived that  this  little  bare-headed  red-bearded  man,  who  now 
came  wildly  along,  was  no  other  than  an  artist  whom  he  had 
once  or  twice  observed  going  into  the  studio  below  his  room. 

"You've  got  him?"  he  called  out,  in  great  excitement; 
"you've  got  one  o'  them?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  him,"  answered  Fitzgerald;  "and  now  I've 
got  him,  I'd  like  to  know  what  to  do  with  him." 

"The  scoundrels!"  said  the  other,  breathlessly.  "If  ye 
hadna  come  up,  they'd  have  taken  every  penny  I  had  on  me. 
Eh,  man,"  he  added,  staring  at  his  rescuer,  "did  he  hit  ye? 
Your  face  is  a'  bluidy." 

Fitzgerald  had  indeed  felt  something  warm  and  moist  about 
his  cheek  and  chin ;  and  when  he  put  his  handkerchief  up  to 
his  face,  he  could  see  by  the  dim  gas-light  that  he  must  have 
been  bleeding  pretty  freely. 

"Yes,  he  did;  and  I  think  I  hit  him  too — unless  he's  sham- 
ming. You  go  and  get  a  policeman,  and  I'll  wait  here  by  this 
fellow.  If  he  tries  to  bolt,  I'll  give  him  another  taste  of  my 
/czpeew." 


40  SHANDON   BELLS. 

The  wild-haired  artist  left  rapidly,  and  in  a  few  seconds  re- 
turned not  only  with  one  but  two  policemen,  whom  he  had 
found  talking  together,  and  into  whose  ears  he  was  now  pour- 
ing the  whole  story  of  how  it  had  happened. 

Just  as  they  came  up,  the  man  on  the  pavement  slowly 
raised  himself  on  his  knees,  and  began  to  rub  the  back  of  his 
head. 

"Who  done  that?"  he  muttered,  as  if  he  were  not  quite 
awake. 

Then  he  seemed  to  collect  himself  somewhat ;  he  looked  up 
and  around;  and  perceiving  the  approachhag  policemen,  he 
uttered  the  one  word  "Copped,"  and  resigned  himself  to  his 
fate. 

"Why,  it's  the  Cobbler,  as  I'm  alive!"  said  one  of  the  po- 
licemen, getting  hold  of  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  turning  the 
apathetic  face  round  to  the  gas-light.  "He's  been  wanted 
ever  since  that  job  in  the  Cromwell  Road. " 

' '  Now  look  here,  my  good  fellow, "  said  the  Scotchman, ' '  I'm 
gomg  to  pick  up  my  hat.  I'm  no  going  to  the  station  at  this 
time  o'  night.  Ye  maun  take  my  name  and  address,  and  I'll 
come  in  the  morning,  and  prefer  the  charge — " 

"  That  '11  do,  sir;  there's  more  nor  one  job  agin  this  man." 

"  Off  to  the  station,  then,  wi'  the  scoundrel;  and  don't  lose 
your  grip  of  him.  If  you,  sir,"  he  said,  turning  to  Fitzgerald, 
"  will  walk  back  as  far  as  my  studio,  I  will  give  you  a  basin  of 
water  to  wash  your  face  in — it's  the  only  way  I  can  thank  ye." 

* '  Oh,  but  we  are  neighbors, "  said  Fitzgerald.  ' '  I  know  you 
well  enough.  You  are  the  man  who  makes  such  a  frightful 
row  with  your  Scotch  songs." 

"Eh!  how  do  you  know  that?"  said  the  other,  sharply. 

"Because  my  room  is  just  over  your  studio." 

' '  Bless  me ! — then  you  are  the  man  that  goes  tramping  up 
and  down  all  night — tramp,  tramp — tramp,  tramp — then  five 
minutes'  rest — then  tramp,  tramp  —  tramp,  tramp — up  and 
down.  Man,  I've  always  pictured  ye  as  a  sort  of  Eugene 
Aram,  wringing  your  hands  :  I  felt  sure  ye  had  murdered 
somebody.  Or  a  hyena  in  a  cage.  What  do  ye  gang  on  in 
that  way  for  ?" 

"It's  a  bad  habit,  that's  all." 

"But  what's  your  business?"  said  the  other,  bluntly. 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  41 

''I  write  for  newspapers." 

"I  did  not  think  tliat  was  such  hard  work.  It  must  cost 
ye  a  lot  in  shoe-leather,"  said  the  Scotchman,  dryly.  "How- 
ever, when  I've  got  my  hat,  ye  maun  come  in  and  have  a 
glass.  I  was  just  getting  back  to  my  supper  when  they 
scoundrels  grippet  me.  I  wish  I  had  a  candle.  I'm  thinking 
the  police,  now  we've  handed  ovec  to  them  such  a  notorious 
creeminal,  might  give  us  another  gas-lamp  in  this  infernal 
dark  yaird." 

Without  the  aid  of  a  candle,  however,  he  soon  picked  up  his 
hat;  then  he  led  the  way  into  a  hollow-sounding  and  appar- 
ently spacious  room,  lit  the  gas,  and  forthwith  proceeded  to 
get  his  companion  some  fresh  water  with  which  to  wash  his 
face.  And  whUe  Fitzgerald,  who  found  that  the  bleeding  had 
proceeded  merely  from  the  nose,  and  that  he  was  not  cut  at 
all,  was  performing  that  opei'ation,  the  Scotchman,  with  a 
smartness  which  showed  that  he  was  familiar  with  the  exi- 
gencies of  camping  out,  had  lit  a  little  gas-stove,  produced 
some  tinned  meat,  and  put  a  quite  snow-white  table-cloth  on  a 
small  table,  with  some  glasses,  plates,  knives,  and  forks. 

"Now  we'll  have  a  bit  of  supper  and  a  crack,"  said  he, 
"since  we're  neighbors.  Will  I  make  ye  a  dish  of  hot  soup? 
Five  minutes  will  do  it." 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  said  young  Fitzgerald,  who  was  much 
taken  with  the  frankness  of  this  short,  broad-shouldered,  red- 
bearded,  and  wild-haired  person.  "  Tliat  tinned  beef  will  do 
capitally  for  me.  But  what  I  should  like  better  than  any- 
thing," he  said,  casting  his  eyes  round  the  big,  gaunt,  and 
dusty  studio,  which  had  very  little  furniture  beyond  the  heaps 
of  canvases  all  ranged  with  their  faces  to  the  wall,  "would  be 
to  have  a  look  at  your  pictures." 

"My  pictures ?"  said  the  other.  "  Oh  yes.  As  ye're  a  news- 
paper man,  ye're  no  likely  to  be  a  buyer." 

' '  You  would  rather  not  show  them  to  a  buyer,  then  ?" 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  wide  world  I  hate  so  much,"  said 
the  other,  busying  himself  with  the  table,  "little  experience  as 
I  have  of  it.  I  don't  mind  criticism — the  sharper,  the  more 
likely  I  am  to  get  something  out  of  it.  But  the  valuation  in 
money — that's  what  gangs  against  the  grain.  Come,  sit  down, 
man;  ye're  none  the  worse  for  the  stroke  on  the  nose.     The 


42  SHANDON   BELLS. 

water  is  near  boiling  already :  and  ye'll  have  a  glass  of  toddy. 
Here's  the  bottle,  and  there's  the  sugar." 

"Thank  you;  but  I  don't  drink  whiskey." 

"Hwhat!"  shouted  the  red-bearded  artist,  nearly  letting  the 
bottle  fall.      ' '  Hwhat  d'ye  say  ?" 

' '  But  I've  got  some  beer  overhead.  I  will  fetch  some  in  a 
minixte." 

"Gude  preserve  us,  laddie!  but  if  it's  ale  ye  want,  there's  a 
bottle  or  two  in  the  coi-ner.     What's  your  name,  by-the-way?" 

"Fitzgerald." 

"Mine's  Ross.  John  Ross.  Fall  to,  man;  there's  no  use 
wasting  time  over  meat  when  there's  a  pipe  and  a  glass  o' 
toddy  to  follow." 

Fitzgerald  soon  found  out  that  he  was  excessively  hungry, 
and  as  the  cold  beef  and  the  bottled  ale  were  alike  excellent, 
he  did  ample  justice  to  both,  while  with  equanimity  he  sub- 
mitted to  be  examined  and  cross-examined  by  this  frankly 
downright  acquaintance. 

"You're  one  o'  the  lucky  ones,  I  can  see,"  said  Ross,  when 
Fitzgerald  had  told  him  how  his  literary  prospects  were. 
"  Ye've  fallen  on  your  feet  just  at  once.  Here  have  I  been  in 
London  nearly  six  years,  and  I  ha  vena  sold  as  many  pictures 
as  I  have  sold  in  two  seasons  when  I  was  i^entin'  in  the  Tros- 
sachs  in  a  caravan.  But  bless  ye,  what  does  it  matter  ?"  he 
continued,  witli  cheerful  good-humor.  "I  have  all  the  more 
pictures  to  sell  when  I  do  fall  on  my  feet.  I  envy  nobody,  so 
long  as  I  can  get  a  crust  of  bread;  for  I  reckon  on  my  time 
coming." 

' '  Of  course  if  you  were  to  get  into  the  Academy,  your  pic- 
tures would  have  a  great  additional  value,  I  suppose,"  Fitzger- 
ald observed. 

"The  Academy?"  said  John  Ross,  with  a  stare.  "Do  ye 
mean  me  becoming  a  member  of  the  Academy  ?" 

"Of  course.  Isn't  that  the  natural  ambition  of  every  art- 
ist ?"  said  his  new  acquaintance. 

"Oh,  but  that's  luck  beyond  anything  I'm  thinking  of," 
said  the  other,  imperturbably,  as  he  proceeded  to  pour  out 
some  scalding  hot  water  on  a  couple  of  lumps  of  sugar. 
"  Just  think  of  all  the  men  there  are  pentin' ;  and  the  chances 
of  any  one  of  them  getting  such  a  stroke  of  luck  as  that !     No, 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  43 

no ;  all  I  hope  for  is  that  they  who  are  in  the  Academy  would 
be  a  bit  friendly.  If  there's  any  one  bears  them  a  grudge, 
it's  no  me — if  the  chance  happened  my  way,  wouldn't  I  take 
it  ?  and  how  can  I  blame  them  ?  No,  the  bit  of  luck  I  hope  for 
is  to  get  a  good  place  some  day  on  the  walls ;  and  that  is  no 
easy,  if  you  think  of  all  the  peoj)le  who  want  to  be  hung. 
They  did  hang  one  o'  mine  last  year,  but  it  was  away  at  the 
roof ;  so  you  see  my  line  of  luck  is  no  clear  before  me  yet,  and 
yours  is." 

"But  I  have  only  the  chance,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "Since  I 
have  come  to  London  I  haven't  earned  a  penny,  as  far  as  I 
know." 

' '  Hear  till  him !  Man,  ye've  everything  before  ye.  Ye've 
all  the  train  nicely  laid;  ye've  only  to  light  the  match,  and 
li'haff  goes  the  pouther!" 

By  this  time  they  had  both  lit  their  pipes  ;  and  John  Eoss 
vs'ent  on  to  talk  about  his  own  art  in  a  way  that  very  soon 
astonished  his  companion.  Whether  he  could  paint  or  not 
was  still,  so  far  as  his  companion  was  concerned,  an  open  ques- 
tion, but  at  least  he  could  talk,  and  that  in  a  manner  that  was 
quite  surprising.  His  vague,  rambling  discourse,  warming  up 
now  and  again  into  enthusiasm,  was  really  eloquent,  in  a 
curious,  bizarre,  happy-go-lucky  kind  of  fashion ;  full  of  fig- 
ures, of  quick,  happy  illustrations;  scornful  at  times,  as  he  hit 
right  and  left ;  and  occasionally  describing  an  object  as  if  he 
had  flashed  a  ray  of  sunshine  on  it.  Fitzgerald  was  intensely 
interested,  and  could  have  gone  on  forever  listening;  but  at 
the  same  time  he  could  not  help  wondering  what  the  actual 
work  was  like  of  a  man  who  was  at  one  moment  denouncing 
the  pre-Raphaelites  for  their  worship  of  sadness,  their  archaic 
mannerisms,  and  their  cast-iron  hardness  of  form,  and  at  the 
next  denouncing  the  French  landscape  artists  for  their  fuzzi- 
ness  of  detail,  their  trickiness,  their  evasion  of  daylight. 

"It  is  not  what  I  can  do  myself,"  he  said  at  last,  observing 
that  Fitzgerald's  eyes  had  strayed  once  or  twice  to  the  can- 
vases. "It  is  what  I  know  I  should  try  to  do.  Suppose  ye 
want  to  pai}it  a  field  of  ripe  corn:  will  ye  get  at  it,  do  ye 
think,  by  sitting  down  and  pentin'  the  stalks  and  the  heads — 
ay,  if  ye  were  to  spend  a  lifetime  at  it,  and  paint  fifty  thousand 
of  them  ?     Ay!  and  if  ye  painted  a  hundred  thousand  of  them 


44  SHANDON  BELLS. 

as  like  as  could  be,  ye'd  be  no  nearei*  getting  at  your  corn  field. 
For  what  ye  have  to  paint  is  what  ye  see ;  and  when  ye  look 
at  a  corn  field  ye  see  nae  single  stalks  at  all,  but  a  great  mass 
of  gold,  as  it  were,  with  a  touch  of  orange  here,  or  paler  yellow 
there,  and  a  wash  of  green  where  the  land  is  wet,  and  some- 
times of  warm  red  even,  where  the  stalks  are  mixed  -with. 
weeds;  and  ye  are  no  going  to  get  that  color  either  by  chasing 
the  daylight  out  of  the  sky,  and  taking  the  thing  into  a  room, 
and  making  a  clever  bit  of  a  fuzzy  sketch  in  gray  and  green 
and  black.  That's  easy — ^but  it's  no  the  corn  field.  Ay,  and 
there's  more.  Ye've  got  to  paint  more  than  ye  see.  Ye've 
got  to  put  just  that  something  into  the  corn  field  that  will 
make  people's  hearts  warm  to  it  when  they  see  it  on  your  can- 
vas. Suppose  that  ye've  been  ill  for  a  month  or  two;  laid 
on  your  back,  maybe,  and  sick  tired  of  the  pattern  on  the 
walls  o'  your  room ;  and  at  last  the  day  comes  when  the  doc- 
tor thinks  you  might  be  lifted  into  a  carriage  and  taken  oot 
for  a  drive.  And  we'll  say  it's  a  fine  warm  afternoon,  and 
your  heart  is  just  full  of  wonder  and  gladness,  like,  at  the 
trees  and  the  soft  air;  and  we'll  say  that  all  of  a  sudden,  at 
the  turning  o'  the  road,  ye  come  in  sicht  of  this  field  of  ripe 
corn,  just  as  yellow  as  yellow  can  be  under  the  afternoon  sky. 
Ay,  and  what  is  it  when  ye  see  such  a  wonderful  and  beautiful 
thing — what  is  it  that  brmgs  the  tears  to  your  een  ?  I  say, 
what  is  it  ?  For  it's  that  ye've  got  to  catch  and  put  in  your 
picture,  or  ye'll  be  a  d d  mistake  as  a  painter!" 

Fitzgerald  did  not  stay  to  ask  him  whether  this  was  not  de- 
manding that  the  landscape  painter  should  possess  the  nervous 
system  of  an  invalid  (though,  perhaps,  something  might  be 
said  even  for  that  theory,  as  applied  to  all  forms  of  art) ;  he 
was  much  too  interested  to  interrupt.  But  by  a  singular 
chance  Ross  drifted  away  from  painting  altogether.  He  was 
talking  of  the  instinct  for  good  color  that  many  people  had 
who  had  no  artistic  training  whatsoever,  and  by  accident  he 
referred  to  fish  and  artificial  flies,  and  so  forth.  Fitzgerald 
looked  up  suddenly. 

"  Are  you  a  fisherman,  too  ?"  he  said,  quickly. 

"A  wee  bit.     Are  you  ?" 

"I  have  thrown  a  fly,"  said  Fitzgerald,  modestly,  and  feel- 
ing in  his  pocket  for  a  cei^tain  envelope. 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  45' 

"As  I  was  saying,  that's  why  I  hold  the  salmon  to  be  the 
king  o'  fish.  He  knows  good  color.  It's  no  use  trying  him 
with  your  aniline  dyes;  yellow  and  scarlet  and  gold — that's 
what  he  watches  for;  whereas  trout — ay,  and  even  sea  trout, 
are  a  mean,  depraved,  magenta-minded  race  o'  creatures.  Man, 
I  filled  my  basket  last  year  in  Perthshire  wi'  the  most  miser- 
able puce  things." 

"But  what  was  the  color?" 

"  Puce.  A  dirty,  drab-lilac  kind  of  thing  it  was.  But  that 
was  naething  to  the  fly  that  was  recommended  me  for  sea  trout 
in  Argyleshire — ay,  and  it  took,  too.  Just  think  of  this:  the 
body,  arsenic  green  worsted,  with  a  bit  of  white  tinsel;  the 
hackle,  a  purple-blue;  and  the  wings — Heaven  knows  where 
they  came  from  excej)t  it  might  have  been  from  a  hoodie  crow 
— a  heedjous  gray,  like  the  color  of  a  decayed  corpse.  Do  ye 
think  a  salmon  would  have  looked  at  such  a  thing?" 

"Perhaps,"  .said  Master  Willie,  as  he  slowly  drew  out  an 
envelope  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  on  the  table,  ' '  this  would 
be  more  to  his  liking  ?" 

"Eh,  man!"  said  Eoss,  drawing  out  the  great  flies  in  all 
their  royal  splendor  of  crimson  silk,  and  yellow  tinsel,  and 
golden-pheasant  feathers.     ' '  Where  got  ye  them  ?" 

' '  I  have  been  amusing  myself  making  them  for  a  friend — 
the  man  I  told  you  about;  I  could  not  think  of  any  other  way 
of  showing  him  I  was  sensible  of  his  kindness." 

' '  Ay,  did  ye  make  these  yoursel  ?  Now  that  I  think  of  it, 
ye  dinna  look  as  if  ye  had  spent  a'  your  life  in  a  newspaper 
office." 

"I  have  spent  most  of  it  tramping  over  wild  bogs  and  on 
hill-sides,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  laugh.  "A  good  deal  more 
than  I  should  have  done." 

"Shooting?" 

"Yes." 

"What  sort?" 

"Oh,  mostly  wild  fowl,  teal,  snipe,  woodcock,  and  so  on, 
chiefly  in  the  winter." 

"  Hard  work,  then  ?" 

But  here  the  conversation  went  far  afield;  for  there  were 
descriptions  of  winter  nights  on  the  bog -land,  and  winter 
mornings  on  the  hill,  and  wild  adventures  along  the  shore  in 


46  SHANDON  BELLS. 

snow-time  or  in  the  hard  black  frost.  Even  to  Fitzgerald 
himself — who  was  pleased  to  see  how  interested  his  companion 
was  in  these  reminiscences — it  seemed  tliat  they  were  more 
picturesque  now  and  here  in  London  than  when  he  had  to  get 
up  shivering  in  the  dark  morning,  and  dress  by  candle-light, 
and  sally  forth  through  the  silent  streets  of  luisheen.  He  for- 
got the  wet  clothes  in  describing  the  view  from  the  mountain- 
side outlooking  to  the  sea.  He  forgot  the  moi'tification  of 
misses  in  the  glory  of  lucky  finds.  These  days  of  sport  that 
are  lived  over  again  in  memory  generally  end  with  a  heavy 
bag;  and  however  tired  and  cold  and  wet  and  hungry  the 
sportsman  may  have  been  in  reality,  he  forgets  all  that,  and 
remembei'S  only  the  delight  with  which  that  heavy  bag  is 
thrown  down  in  the  hall,  and  the  warm  snug  evening  after- 
ward, when  the  dinner  things  are  removed,  and  chairs  drawn 
to  the  fire,  and  the  friendly  tobacco  begins  to  throw  a  charm 
over  the  soul. 

Only  once  did  Fitzgerald,  who,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  en- 
joyed talking  over  these  tilings,  try  to  start  his  companion  off 
again  about  painting.  ' '  Are  you  a  sea-painter  ?"  he  said.  ' '  Do 
you  paint  sea.-pieces  as  well  ?"  and  then  he  glanced  again  at 
the  dusty  gray  canvases. 

"  I  ?"  said  Ross.  ' '  No,  I  should  think  not !  Why,  it  would 
break  my  heart.  Other  things  are  difficult  enough ;  but  that ! 
Man,  I  see  pictures  of  the  sea  at  the  Academy  that  just  make 
one  laugh.  Every  wave  as  accurately  shaped  and  modelled 
as  if  it  was  cast  out  of  melted  cannon ;  every  little  turn  of  foam 
as  clean  cut  as  a  meerschaum  pipe.  God !  the  fellows  must  be 
cleverer  than  Joshua  the  son  of  Nun,  for  they  mvist  have  got 
the  sea  as  well  as  the  sun  and  clouds  to  stand  still.  Did  ever 
man's  eyes  see  moving  water  like  that  ? — moving  water,  that  is 
a  constant  distraction  of  lights  and  shifting  shadows  and  forms 
— lightning  touches,  ye  might  say,  so  swift  were  they — all  be- 
wildering and  glancing  round  ye;  and  that  is  what  ye  begin 
to  cut  and  carve  and  stick  on  canvas  as  if  it  were  slices  of 
cream-cheese  on  the  top  o'  green  sealing-wax.  No,  no;  it's 
bad  enough  inland.  Even  when  ye  get  perfectly  still  shadows 
on  a  perfectly  still  loch,  there's  an  oily  kind  of  glisten  that  no 
pent-box  is  likely  to  get  for  ye.  Eh,  and  such  chances  as  we 
had  sometimes  at  the  wild  fowl  when  we  were  camping  out — 


A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.  47 

that  would  have  made  your  mouth  water;  ay,  and  at  black 
game  too.  Nearly  every  morning  when  we  went  out  to  wash 
in  the  burn — that  was  when  we  had  the  caravan  in  the  Tross- 
achs — I've  seen  them  walking  about  without  the  least  fear  o' 
us.  Maybe  the  old  black-cock  would  give  a  cluck -cluck  of 
warning,  but  the  hen  and  her  brood  scarcely  heeded.  Deed,  I 
once  hit  an  old  gray  hen  with  a  pent-brush,  as  sure  as  death. 
And  when,  at  last,  the  keeper  lent  me  a  gun,  and  said  I  might 
shoot  a  bird  once  in  a  while — for  our  own  cooking,  ye  ken,  out 
I  went  as  early  as  six  o'clock."  So  again  they  were  back  on 
the  various  adventures  and  experiences  of  shooting ;  recalling 
vivid  rambles  in  other  years,  now  in  Inverness-shire,  now  on 
the  desolate  bog-lands  near  to  Inisheen.  And  so  interesting 
was  this  talk  that  when  Fitzgerald  definitely  rose  to  depart,  at 
the  hour  of  half  past  four  in  the  morning,  he  had  almost  for- 
gotten he  had  not  seen  his  host's  pictures. 

"  Pictures,"  said  John  Ross,  with  a  laugh,  "toots  no,  man, 
ye  can  see  pictures  any  day,  and  better  than  mine.  But  I 
would  like  ye  to  come  in  whenever  ye  have  half  an  hour,  and 
smoke  a  pipe,  and  let  us  know  how  ye  are  getting  on." 

"  All  right,  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Fitzgerald,  most  heart- 
ily. "  And  I  may  learn  something  to-morrow — that  is  to  say, 
if  my  nose  has  not  become  twice  its  natural  size,  m  which  case 
I  shall  keep  in-doors." 


48  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  CAREER. 

However,  there  was  no  trace  of  the  blow  discoverable  next 
day,  and  so  on  this  fine  May  morning  Fitzgerald  set  about  the 
accomplishment  of  his  various  tasks.  First  of  all,  he  had  to 
accompany  his  artist  friend  to  the  police  station,  though  in- 
deed he  harbored  no  sentiment  of  revenge  against  the  luckless 
Cobbler  who  had  once  more  fallen  into  the  clutches  of  the  law. 
Then  he  proceeded  to  get  the  thirty  pounds  made  transferable 
to  Ireland.  This,  nevertheless,  he  did  with  some  compunc- 
tion. For,  if  he  was  to  fight  his  way  in  London,  was  it  fair  to 
Kitty,  who  had  intrusted  her  future  to  him,  that  he  should 
thus  throw  away  the  sinews  of  war  ?  Was  it  not  running  a 
tremendous  risk  to  leave  himself  with  only  seven  pounds  be- 
fore securing  some  definite  work  ?  But  then,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  fair  prospects  before  him;  and  he  had  the  cour- 
age of  two  or  three  and  twenty;  besides,  he  was  not  going  to 
allow  that  blackguard  Maloney  to  triumph  over  his  father, 
Coursing  Club  or  no  Coursing  Club.  And  so  he  went  and  sent 
off  the  money,  and  then  made  his  way  to  the  Albany,  where 
he  had  an  ajipointment  with  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke.  When  Fiam- 
metta  showed  him  into  the  richly  colored  room,  he  found  that 
gentleman  reclining  in  a  low  easy-chair  in  a  voluminous  dress- 
ing-gown; a  cigarette  in  one  hand,  a  paper-covered  novel  in 
the  other,  while  before  him  on  the  little  table  were  the  re- 
mains of  a  French  breakfast. 

"How  are  you,  Fitzgerald?"  he  said,  throwing  aside  the 
book.  "  Sit  down  and  have  some  coffee  and  a  cigarette.  No  ? 
You'll  find  that  Chartreuse  worth  trying.  Well,  and  what  did 
you  think  of  the  great  Gifford  ?  Was  the  godlike  man  up  to 
your  expectations  ?" 

"I  was  very  much  interested,"  said  Fitzgerald,  rather  timid- 
ly; for  indeed  he  did  not  like  the  way  in  which  Mr.  Hilton 
Clarke  spoke  of  the  literary  calling  and  of  its  professors,  whilst 
he  did  not  wish  to  show  the  presumption  of  putting  himself 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  CAREER.  49 

into  antagonism  with  one  who  was  so  much  his  superior. 
"I  have  always  had  a  great  regard  for  the  Liberal  Review, 
and — of  course  I  never  thought  I  should  ever  meet  the  editor. 
I  haven't  seen  you  to  thank  you  for  giving  me  such  a  chance. 
Perhaps  you  don't  quite  understand  what  it  is  to  a  young  fel- 
low who  has  only  heard  of  well-known  men.  I — I  thought  it 
was  a  great  honor." 

"Oh,  you  will  soon  get  rid  of  all  that  modesty,"  said  the 
other.      "  It  is  a  useless  commodity  in  London." 

"We  walked  home  together,"  continued  Fitzgerald,  "  as  far 
as  Sloane  Street;  and  Mr.  Gifford  was  good  enough  to  say  I 
might  try  my  hand  at  a  notice  of  that  new  novel  Daphne''s 
Shadoiv  for  the  Liberal  Revieiv.'''' 

"The  devil  he  did!  What  can  havt  made  him  so  good- 
natured  ?" 

"I  think  I  know,"  put  in  Fitzgerald,  dexterously.  "His 
good-nature  was  caused  by  your  good-nature  in  recommend- 
ing me." 

"Oh,  that  was  nothing,"  said  the  other,  carelessly.  "Well, 
you  must  be  cautious  how  you  set  about  it.  Bring  the  book  to 
me." 

"  But  I  have  already  sent  in  the  review." 

"  Already  ?     You  haven't  been  wasting  time,  then." 

"And  I  have  been  doing  more  than  that,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
pulling  out  a  certain  envelope.  ' '  I  have  been  putting  togeth- 
er a  few  salmon  flies  for  you,  if  you  care  to  have  them.  I 
found  I  could  get  the  materials  better  in  London." 

"Ah,  thanks — much  obliged,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  taking  out 
one  or  two  of  the  flies  with  his  beautiful  white  fingers.  "  But 
about  this  review.  I  am  afi'aid  the  gray-eyed  Athene  wasn't 
looking  after  you  when  you  sent  it  in  in  such  a  hurry.  I  wish 
you  had  come  to  me  first.  Young  reviewers  don't  seem  to 
understand  that  they  ought  to  consider  for  whom  they  are 
writing  when  they  write.  It  isn't  the  public ;  the  jDublic  judge 
for  themselves  nowadays;  dinner  tables  and  clubs  do  all  that. 
Nor  the  author;  the  author  is  pig-headed;  besides,  if  you  don't 
tell  him  he  is  better  than  Byron  or  Shakspeare,  he  will  think 
you  are  devoured  with  jealousy  and  spite.  No,"  continued 
Hilton  Clarke,  as  he  carefully  rolled  up  another  cigarette, 
"you  are  writing  for  your  editor.     He  is  the  audience  you 

3 


50  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ought  to  consider.  He  is  the  person  you  must  impress  with  a 
conviction  of  your  sagacity.  Now,  to  do  that,  you  see,  you 
want  experience;  you  want  to  know  your  man.  I  wish  you 
had  come  to  me.  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to  you  to  put 
John  Brown  into  the  review  you  wrote  for  Gifford  ?" 

' '  John  Brown  ?"  said  FitzgerakI,  looking  bewildered.  ' '  What 
John  Brown  V 

"John  Brown,  of  Harper's  Ferry.  No,  you  never  thought 
of  that.  But  if  you  had  only  come  to  me,  I  could  have  told 
you  that  you  had  only  to  pvit  John  Brown  into  the  review — 
anywhere,  anyhow — and  you'd  have  fetched  old  GifFord  to  a 
dead  certainty.  He  can't  withstand  John  Brown.  All  you've 
got  to  do,  "  he  continued,  contemiilatiug  one  of  the  salmon  flies 
and  stroking  out  the  soft  feathers,  "is  to  take  John  Brown's 
body,  without  any  wings,  or  hackle,  or  tinsel,  as  one  might 
say,  and  you  drop  that  fly  quietly  over  Gifford's  nose,  and 
he'll  rise  to  it  like  a  grilse  just  fresh  run  from  the  sea." 

Fitzgerald  could  not  understand  why  this  friend  of  his  lost 
no  oppoi'tunity  of  throwing  taunts — however  they  might  be 
veiled  in  a  sort  of  scornful  fastidiousness — at  Mr.  Gifford  ;  but 
for  the  constraint  with  which  he  listened  to  such  s^jeeches 
there  were  also  other  reasons.  Among  the  various  articles  of 
young  Fitzgerald's  creed  (he  was  only  three-and-twenty)  there 
were  none  he  clung  to  more  implicitly  than  these  two :  first, 
that  the  great  majority  of  womankind  were  honest  and  hon- 
orable, self-denying,  believable,  and  worthy  of  all  the  beautiful 
things  that  had  been  said  about  them  by  the  poets;  and  sec- 
ondly, that  literature  was  one  of  the  noblest  callings  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  that  he  who  did  good  work  therein — 
whether  it  was  definitely  adding  to  the  world's  possessions  in 
that  way,  or  whether  it  was  merely  in  teaching  men,  from  week 
to  week,  what  they  ought  to  value — was  a  jniblic  benefactor 
who  ought  to  be  regarded  with  respect  and  affection  and  grat- 
itude. Now  on  both  these  points  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  discoursed 
with  a  complacently  open  skepticism ;  and  at  such  times  Fitz- 
gerald wished  he  could  close  his  ears  against  this  talk,  not  that 
it  in  the  slightest  degree  affected  his  beliefs,  but  that  it  affected 
what  he  wished  to  regard  as  the  character  of  his  friend.  Fitz- 
gerald was  naturally  a  hero  worshipper,  and  he  was  capable  of 
a  u'arm  gratitiide.     He  wished  to  think  the  best  of  his  friend. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF   A  CAREER.  51 

Aud  when  Hilton  Clarke  talked  in  this  fashion — which  he 
seemed  to  enjoy  in  proportion  as  Fitzgerald's  face  fell — the  lat- 
ter did  try  to  close  his  ears  as  much  as  he  could.  Then,  again, 
when  he  left  he  would  try  to  forget  all  that  he  had  heard.  He 
would  remember  only  Hilton  Clarke's  best  points — the  charm 
of  his  conversation  when  he  happened  to  light  on  some  literary 
point  that  interested  him ;  his  great  kindness  showij  to  a  mere 
stranger  met  by  chance  in  the  south  of  Ireland ;  and  his  per- 
sonal courtesy  (the  Avay  in  which  he  had  come  to  the  relief  of 
his  improperly  attired  guest  was  still  fresh  in  Fitzgerald's 
mind).  Besides,  perhaps  his  experience  of  women  had  been 
unfortunate;  and  perhaps  his  disparagement  of  contemporary 
literature,  especially  of  critical  literature,  was  due  to  a  sort  of 
modesty,  seeing  that  he  himself  held  an  enviable  position  in  it. 

"Well,  now,  Fitzgerald,  let's  get  on  to  this  magazine  busi- 
ness.    Won't  you  smoke  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  I  never  smoke  till  night;  it  takes  u]i  too 
much  time." 

' '  Ah,  the  eager  impetuosity  of  youth !  When  yovi  get  a 
dozen  years  older,  you'll  be  glad  of  something  to  help  you  to 
pass  the  hours.  Well,  my  friend  the  capitalist  has  got  some 
impetuosity  too.  In  one  day  he  has  managed  to  secure  a  busi- 
ness manager  for  us,  and  also  a  publishing  office  m  the  Strand. 
No  doubt  we  should  start  as  soon  as  possible ;  for  in  a  short 
time  every  one  will  be  in  London  for  the  season,  and  then  it  is 
that  people  begin  to  talk  about  their  plans  for  the  autumn. 
Scobell  suggests  the  week  after  next;  but  that  is  clearly  impos- 
sible. We  must  have  material  to  begin  with;  people  won't 
pay  a  shilling  for  a  mere  programme  of  our  intentions.  My 
private  impression  is  that  the  capitalist  imagines  he  will  find 
himself  a  person  of  importance  in  society  through  his  con- 
nection with  this  magazine ;  but  it  will  be  part  of  your  busi- 
ness, Mr.  Sub-Editor,  to  remember  that  it  is  I  who  am  editor  of 
the  magazine,  and  not  Dick  Scobell." 

"Oh,  of  course.  I  know  what  rows  with  proprietors  are," 
said  Fitzgei'ald. 

"Proprietors  are  the  most  unreasonable  of  mortals.  They 
don't  understand  their  proper  sphere  of  duty — which  is  to  pay 
and  look  pleasant.  If  the  venture  succeeds,  they  get  good 
interest  for  their  money.     If  it  doesn't,  they  don't  mend  mat- 


52  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ters  by  coming'  in  at  intervals,  like  a  Greek  chorus:  '  Oh !  oh ! 
oh !  Woe  I  woe !  woe !'  Now,  as  regards  your  own  position, 
Fitzgerald,"  he  said,  as  he  poured  out  a  small  glass  of  Char- 
treuse, showing  as  he  did  so  a  singular-looking  ring  on  his 
finger,  consisting  of  a  little  Indian  god,  in  gold,  fastened  on  a 
broad  silver  hoop.  ' '  Have  you  considered  the  question,  of  re- 
muneration f 

"As  regards  myself?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  something  of  a 
blush.  "I  don't  exj^ect  very  much  at  the  outset.  I  think  I 
am  very  lucky  to  get  a  start  so  early  after  coming  to  Loudon. 
There  is  an  artist  neighbor  of  mine  who  thinks  I  have  been 
very  lucky  indeed,  and  he  considers  everything  a  matter  of 
luck,  even  getting  elected  a  member  of  the  Academy." 

"  He  must  have  been  looking  at  this  year's  exhibition,"  said 
Hilton  Clarke,  dryly.  "Well,  now,  this  capitalist  friend  gives 
me  a  lump  sum,  I  may  explain  to  you,  and  he  holds  me  respon- 
sible for  all  the  literary  matter,  and  for  having  the  thing  pro- 
perly put  together.  What  you  will  have  to  do  won't  interfere, 
I  hope  and  think,  with  any  more  serious  literary  work.  Very 
well,  what  do  you  think  of  four  pounds  a  week?  Speak  frank- 
ly, you  know,  for  I  may  squeeze  the  good  Scobell  a  little  fur- 
ther yet." 

"Four  pounds  a  week?"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  his  face  bright- 
ening up  with  surprise.  "Then  my  artist  friend  was  right. 
I  had  five-and-twenty  shillings  a  week  from  the  Cork  Chron- 
icle.'''' 

"It  is  enough,  then?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.     It  is  far  more  than  I  expected." 

"  You  should  never  say  that.  It  is  not  wise.  Howevei',  as 
I  am  dealing  with  another  man's  money,  I  am  not  going  to 
reduce  the  offer;  and  I  think  myself  it  is  a  fair  one.  And 
so  you  had  five-and-twenty  shillmgs  a  week  on  the  Cork 
Chronicle  f  said  Hilton  Clarke,  regarding  the  younger  man. 
"Twenty-five  shillings  a  week;  youth  and  health  and  high 
ambition ;  and  somebody  to  write  love  verses  about.  I  sup- 
pose you  were  not  unhappy?  Oh  yes,  I  could  detect  that  sub- 
tle inspiration  here  and  there,  in  whatever  guise  the  young 
lady  turned  up.     But  I  have  always  had  a  suspicion  that  when 


THE  BEGINNING  OF   A  CAREER.  53 

youthful  poets  gave  their  sweethearts  long  and  sounding- 
names,  the  ladies  themselves  were  rather  short  of  stature.  Is 
not  that  so?  It  is  like  calling  a  musical  little  verse  in  Horace 
a  choriamhic  dimeter  acatalectic.  The  Lady  Irmingarde,  for 
example.  That  is  a  fine  name ;  but  I  would  wager  now  that 
the  Lady  Irmingarde  is  not  over  five  feet  three." 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  this  new  magazine," 
said  Master  Willie,  striving  to  be  very  calm,  but  with  all  the 
quick  blood  of  the  Fitzgeralds  blazing  in  his  face. 

' '  Don't  be  angry,  man, "  said  the  other,  good-naturedly.  ' '  I 
hope  it  will  have  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the  new  magazine. 
You  see,  in  every  well-conducted  household  you  will  find  two 
or  three  people  either  in  love  with  somebody  or  other,  or  else 
willing  to  think  of  the  days  when  they  were ;  and  you  can't 
appeal  to  that  sentiment  unless  you,  the  writer,  have  a  fresh 
fount  of  inspu'ation  to  draw  from.  You  don't  suppose  that 
the  old  writers,  when  they  were  describing  Helen,  formed  her 
out  of  their  own  head  ?  Of  course  not.  Of  course  they  turned 
to  the  pi'etty  Chloe  or  the  laughing  Lalage  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, to  see  what  soft  cheeks  and  pretty  eyes  could  be  likened 
to.  Do  you  remember  Symmons's  translation  of  that  passage 
in  the  Agamemnon  ? — well,  it  is  rather  a  paraphrase  than  a 
translation ;  but  listen  to  this  as  a  piece  of  English : 

'  When  first  she  came  to  Ilion's  towers. 
Oh,  what  a  glorious  sight,  I  ween,  was  there! 
The  tranquil  beauty  of  the  gorgeous  queen 
Hung  soft  as  breathless  summer  on  her  cheeks, 
Where  on  the  damask  sweet  the  glowing  zephyr  slept; 
And  like  an  idol  beaming  from  its  shrine. 
So  o'er  the  floating  gold  around  her  thrown 
Her  peerless  face  did  shine; 

And  though  sweet  softness  hung  upon  their  lids. 
Yet  her  young  eyes  still  wounded  where  they  looked.' 

Is  not  that  fine  ? 

'  Yet  her  young  eyes  still  wounded  where  they  looked.' " 

And  indeed  Fitzgei'ald  considered  it  was  so  fine,  and  so  neai'- 
ly  suggestive  of  a  pair  of  soft,  black,  innocent  young  eyes  that 
he  knew  of  far  away,  that  he  straightway  forgot  all  liis  wrath, 
and  proiwsed  to  his  companion  that,  if  he  had  time,  they  should 
walk  down  to  the  Strand,  and  have  a  look  at  the  offices. 


54  SHANDON   BELLS. 

"I  can't  very  well,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  j-awning  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  long  legs,  and  stroking  his  yellow  beard.  "I  have 
got  to  dress  first.  Then  I  am  going  on  to  Jerrayn  Street  to  the 
Turkish  Baths.  Then  I've  got  one  or  two  calls  to  make  in  the 
afternoon.  But  you  might  go  down  if  you  like,  and  introduce 
yourself  to  the  manager.  His  name  is  Silas  Earp.  And  don't 
forget  we  must  have  a  touch  of  sentiment  in  the  magazine ;  it 
is  wonderful  the  interest  that  grown  people  take  in  young  peo- 
ple's love  affairs.  Look  at  the  eagerness  with  which  they  read 
breach-of-promise  cases — the  more  absurd  the  better,  don't  you 
see  ?  for  they  are  delighted  to  find  other  people  making  just 
such  fools  of  themselves  as  they  did  at  the  same  age." 

Well,  Fitzgerald  got  away,  and  was  rather  glad ;  for  some- 
how he  liked  Hilton  Clarke  better,  and  was  more  grateful  to 
him,  when  he  was  not  listening  to  him.  And  now  indeed  the 
day  was  joyful  to  him — a  fresh,  clear  May  day,  with  the  pave- 
ments of  Piccadilly  looking  quite  white  ;  and  all  he  could 
think  of  was  that  Kitty  would  not  know  soon  enough  of  the 
good  fortune  that  had  befallen  him.  After  all,  why  should  he 
have  been  angry  about  the  mention  of  the  Lady  Irmingarde  ? 
It  was  only  good-humored  banter.  For,  indeed,  as  Andy  the 
Hopper  had  remarked,  "'twas  Masther  Willie  had  the  duck's 
back,"  and  annoyances  ran  clean  off  his  shoulders,  so  long  as 
you  gave  him  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  sunlight  and  a  moderate 
share  of  pavement  for  his  eager  and  rapid  walking. 

He  went  down  to  the  Strand,  and  saw  the  offices,  which  were 
in  a  sad  state  of  confusion  and  dust.  Likewise  he  had  a  long 
conversation  with  Mr.  Earp,  and  a  briefer  one  with  the  great 
capitalist  himself,  who  seemed  surprised  that  Hilton  Clarke 
had  not  shown  up,  though  Fitzgerald  ventured  to  point  out 
that  an  editor  could  not  be  of  ranch  use  about  the  place  until 
they  had  jirovided  him  with  at  least  a  desk  and  a  penny  bottle 
of  ink.  Then  with  one  hurried  and  passing  glance  at  the 
office  of  the  Liberal  Revieic — where,  perhaps,  that  first  con- 
tribution of  his  was  at  this  very  moment  under  consideration 
— he  set  off  home  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him,  anxious 
to  fill  up  the  rest  of  the  day  with  some  work,  and  also  in  the 
secret  hope  of  finding  a  letter  from  Kitty,  missed  by  his  early 
outgoing  of  that  morning,  awaiting  him.  Moreover,  he  was 
very  hungry,  after  these  many  hours ;  and  so,  on  reaching  his 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  CAREER.  55 

spacious  if  somewhat  bare  and  low-roofed  study,  he  besought 
his  landlady  to  cook  him  a  chop  with  all  convenient  speed. 
And  indeed  that  was  a  right  royal  banquet  that  he  enjoyed 
there,  all  by  himself,  in  the  silent  big  room,  made  cheerful  by 
the  sunlight  streaming  in  at  the  open  window;  for  if  it  con- 
sisted only  of  a  chop,  some  bread,  and  a  glass  of  ale,  was  there 
not  a  letter  of  Kitty's,  over  a  dozen  pages  long,  to  serve  as  a 
musical  and  laughing  accompaniment  ?  The  sun  shone  warm 
on  the  faded  rugs  on  the  floor ;  there  was  the  faintest  stirring 
of  the  wind  among  the  young  plane-trees  in  the  court-yard 
outside;  in  the  silence  it  almost  seemed  as  if  he  could  hear 
Kitty  talking  to  him.  And  then,  again,  he  had  to  imagine 
another  picture — that  lofty  little  terrace  that  looked  down  on 
Cork  and  over  to  Shandon  steeple;  and  a  small  room  there; 
and  Kitty  bending  over  these  precious  leaves,  and  sometimes 
raising  her  head  to  look  at  the  rain  or  to  think  of  him  far 
away. 

"  AuDLEY  Place,  Tuesday. 
"My  beloved  and  bonny  Coulin,* — What  I  have  done  to 
deserve  it  I  don't  know,  but  since  ever  I  came  back  to  this 
blessed  town  there  has  been  nothing  but  rain,  rain,  and  rain, 
and  the  Beautiful  City,  that  you  tried  to  make  me  believe  was 
like  Venice,  is  nothing  but  a  mass  of  smoke  away  down  in  a 
hole,  and  St.  Mary's  steeple  over  there  seems  to  shiver  with  cold 
when  it  strikes  the  half-hours;  and  the  only  human  beings 
within  sight  are  a  lot  of  rooks  in  the  meadows  across  the  road, 
and  you  can  tell  by  the  noise  they  make  they  are  in  a  fright- 
ful temper  because  of  the  wet.  I  do  wonder  now,  more  than 
ever,  where,  in  such  a  climate,  a  certain  person  got  all  the  sun- 
niness  that's  in  his  face,  and  in  his  eyes,  and  more  particularly 
his  hair.  Did  he  take  all  there  was  to  get,  and  leave  none  ? 
At  all  events,  Master  Coulin,  it's  a  very  good  thing  for  you, 
and  it's  a  very  bad  thing  for  me,  that  you  and  I  did  not  live 
in  the  time  when  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  made  the  young 
Irishmen  crop  their  locks,  for  then  I  wouldn't  have  looked  at 
you,  and  I'd  have  minded  my  own  jiroper  business.  Dear  me, 
the  audacity  of  some  people,  and  the  folly  of  others !     Just 

*  Coulin  in  Irish  means  "  the  youth  with  the  flowing  hair."     Miss  Ro- 
rnayne  was  doubtless  famihar  with  Moore's  songs. 


56  SHANDON  BELLS. 

when  a  good  contralto  is  worth  a  mint  of  money  in  Italian 
opera,  jealousy  steps  in  and  says,  No,  you  sha'n't ;  you  sha'n't 
even  be  allowed  to  sing  in  England ;  no  more  Crystal  Palace 
for  you;  nothing  but  concerts  in  such  centres  of  civilization  as 
Cork  and  Limerick  and  Belfast;  and  just  to  make  sure  of  hid- 
ing away  such  a  diamond— no,  I  suppose  it  should  be  an  emer- 
ald in  Ireland — I'll  set  Don  Fierna  and  his  wicked  elves  to 
bind  you  in  invisible  chains,  and  something  awful  will  happen 
to  you  if  you  even  whisper  La  Scala  in  your  dreams.  Well, 
whether  it  was  her  tremendous  good-nature,  or  whether  it  was 
the  sunlight  that  had  got  into  the  brown  of  Mr.  Jealousy's  bail*, 
or  whether  she  got  such  a  fright  with  the  ghosts  that  she 
promised  anything  without  the  slightest  notion  of  keeping 
her  word,  I  don't  know;  but  the  thing  was  done;  and  then  all 
of  a  sudden — in  return  for  her  extraordinary  good-nature  and 
self-sacrifice, she  finds  herself  a  forlorn  and  forsaken  damsel; 
left  to  pace  up  and  down  the  sand  of  luisheen,  which,  as  Andy 
the  Hopper  remarks,  is  so  firm  and  clean  that,  '  Sure,  miss,  ye 
might  walk  on  it  wid  a  satin  shoe.' 

"Oh,  Willie,  I'm  sick  tired  of  the  rain,  and  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  writing  to  you.  I  was  wet  through  last  night  com- 
ing home.  What  induced  me  to  take  these  rooms  I  don't 
know.  I  shall  never  again  take  lodgings  where  one  can  not 
diive  home  on  a  wet  night.  But  Miss  Patience  says  she  likes 
large  views :  I  suppose  they  conform  with  her  great  mind.  I 
have  been  so  good,  Willie!  I  have  been  really  so  very  good 
that  I  don't  know  what  to  do  witli  myself,  and  I  expect  to  find 
wings  sprouting  some  morning  when  I  get  up.  I  haven't 
gone  round  by  the  barracks  once,  and  the  two  or  three  times  I 
have  gone  round,  I  have  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  gravel  the 
wJiole  ivay,  just  in  case  a  young  ossifer  might  come  riding  out 
(I  can  see  the  frown  on  your  face  quite  clearly,  and  perhaps  it 
isn't  safe  to  put  jokes  in  a  letter,  when  one  isn't  by  to  be  scold- 
ed for  impertinence,  flippancy,  unladylike  manners,  and  all  the 
pleasant  rest  of  it).  So  we'll  get  back  to  business,  please,  and 
the  truth  is,  you  know,  Master  Willie,  although  it  has  been  re- 
served for  an  English  singer  to  reveal  to  the  Irish  people  the 
pathos  of  'The  Bells  of  Shandon,'all  the  same  the  English 
singer  can't  earn  a  living  by  singing  that  one  song,  unless,  in- 
deed, she  were  to  sing  it  through  the  streets,  like  Nellie  in  the 


THE  BEGINNING  OP  A  CAREER.  57 

Green  Bushes.  No,  nor  even  when  she  makes  a  skillful  selec- 
tion illustrating  the  wonderful  virtues  of  the  Irish  people,  and 
when  she  shifts  her  engagements  as  much  as  possible  from 
north  to  south, and  east  to  west;  yes,  and  even  when  she  makes 
excuses  for  pretty  long  holidays— at  Inisheen  or  elsewhere — 
even  the  Irish  people,  though  liking  to  be  told  of  their  virtues, 
may  get  a  little  tired  of  her,  and  wish  to  see  a  little  less  of 
her.  In  that  case,  managers  might  begin  to  hint  about  reduc- 
tion of  terms;  whei'eas,  even  at  present,  it's  just  about  all  she 
can  do  to  keep  things  straight — waiting  for  the  glorious  time 
when  Prince  Goldenhair  is  coming  to  claim  her  and  carry  her 

ofP.     Very  well,  now  this  is  the  point:  at  the Theatre  in 

Dublin  they're  going  to  put  in  a  panorama  between  the  pieces, 
and  they've  made  me  an  offer  (now  you  needn't  jump  out  of 
your  chair  like  that ;  it  isn't  to  go  on  the  stage) ;  I  say  they 
have  made  me  a  veiy  fair  and  liberal  offer  if  I  will  go  and 
sing  for  them — only  one  song  each  evening,  which  is  light 
work,  and  I  shall  have  no  expense  of  dresses  or  gloves,  for  I 
sing  in  the  '  wings'  unseen.  Don't  you  see,  the  panorama  is 
really  a  series  of  pictures  of  Irish  scenery,  and  when  they 
come  to  the  finest  of  them — of  couree  it's  Killarney  in  moon- 
light; that's  because  they  don't  know  the  glen  near  the  Black- 
water  where  Don  Fierna  lives,  and  where  mischief  is  done  to 
the  hearts  of  jjoor  distressed  damsels — then  the  orchestra  begins 
to  play  very  softly  and  sweetly,  and  then  you  hear  the  voice 
of  an  angel  (that's  me)  singing  away  somewhere — at  Innisfal- 
len  or  Killeenalougha.  I  don't  think  much  of  the  song  they 
have  sent  me;  but  I  dare  say  it  will  sound  very  nice  in  that 
mysterious  way,  and  the  moonlight  and  the  view  of  the  lake 
will  put  a  charm  into  my  poor  singing.  Now,  Willie,  I  know 
you  don't  want  me  to  go  to  Dublin ;  but  this  isn't  like  going  to 
Dublin  in  an  ordinary  kind  of  way,  for  my  name  won't  appear 
in  the  bills  at  all,  and  nobody  will  know  who  is  singing.  It 
will  really  be  a  long  holiday  for  me,  and  I  shall  come  back  to 
my  concert  series  after  a  sufficiently  long  absence ;  and  I  pro- 
mise you  that  as  I  shall  have  no  audience  visible,  I  will  sing 
every  evening  just  as  if  I  were  singing  to  you,  and  think  of 
you  all  the  time ;  and  the  management  will  not  have  reason  to 
be  sorry  for  that.  Now  what  do  you  say  ?  My  father's  half- 
pay  just  about  keeps  him,  you  know;  but  I  have  always  tried 


58  SHANDON   BELLS. 

to  seud  him  some  little  present  about  midsummer  to  induce 
him  to  go  down  to  Ramsgate  or  Margate  for  a  week.  Then 
these  long  holidays,  even  with  all  the  good  old  Patience's  econ- 
omy, have  very  nearly  emptied  my  purse,  and  supposing  that 
Prince  Goldenhair  w^ere  suddenly  to  appear  and  say,  '  Look 
sharp,  Miss  Kitty;  I've  found  the  bag  of  diamonds  I  went  for  ; 
come  along!'  wouldn't  it  be  very  awkward  if  I  had  to  say, 
'  Oh,  but,  dear  sir,  I  haven't  got  a  farthing  to  buy  my  white 
satin  dress  with'  ?  So  be  a  good  boy  and  don't  make  any  objec- 
tions, and  every  night  I'll  think  of  you  as  I'm  singing  the 
song — oh  dear  me !  as  if  I  had  anything  else  to  do  now  but 
think  of  you ;  with  a  bit  of  a  cry  now  and  again. 

"What  is  the  use  of  my  writing  to  you  ?  I  know  what  you 
are  doing  at  this  moment.  You  are  not  working  at  all ;  you 
are  not  thinking  of  me  at  all;  yovi  are  walking  in  Hyde  Park 
with  Mr.  Supercilious,  and  admiring  the  fine  ladies,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  had  got  you  to  convict-crop  your  hair, 
like  his  own,  and  wear  gloves  to  get  your  hands  white.  Why 
should  I  waste  my  time  on  you  when  you're  not  thinking  about 
me  ?  Perhaps  you  won't  open  this  letter  at  all ;  perhaps  you 
will  leave  it  lying  unopened  on  the  table ;  I  shouldn't  wonder 
a  bit. 

"I  got  Miss  Patience  to  drive  out  on  a  car  to  the  glen.  But 
it  W'as  common  daylight,  and  Don  Fierna  and  his  elves  had 
gone  away  in-doors,  and  there  was  nothing  but  grumbling 
from  the  dear  old  Patience  at  her  having  to  scramble  down 
the  bank  and  scratch  her  hand  with  briers.  She  couldn't  im- 
agine why  I  wanted  to  pull  her  to  pieces  like  that,  nor  could  I 
get  Andy  the  Hopj^er  that  same  afternoon  to  say  a  word  about 
fairies  or  Don  Fierna.  Indeed,  all  the  neighborhood  became 
quite  commonplace.  Inisheeu  is  a  mean-looking,  miserable 
hole;  I  never  saw  such  dirty  streets;  and  the  wretched  tubs  of 
vessels  are  lying  not  on  sand  at  all,  but  on  mud.  I  hated  it — 
except  one  or  two  nights  when  the  moon  was  up,  and  I  looked 
out  on  the  cliffs  beyond  the  bar,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  Well, 
now,  if  my  bonny  boy  were  coming  home  from  these  cliffs  car- 
rying with  him  the  wild  pigeons  he  had  been  after  all  the  day, 
perhaps  I'd  like  the  place  a  little  better, 'and  then,  you  know, 
how  could  I  help  thinking  of  the  night  you  rowed  me  home  in 
the  boat,  and  all  Inisheeu  asleep,  and  you  had  wrapped  me  up 


THE   BEGINNING  OF  A  CAREER.  59 

SO  tight  in  the  shawl  ?  I  waved  ray  handkerchief  to  you  from 
the  window,  but  I  daren't  lift  the  window ;  so  you  couldn't  see. 
I  watched  you  go  away  back  to  the  town — the  boat  the  weest 
black  speck  on  the  silver  of  the  water.  Dear  me !  that  I  should 
say  anything  against  Inisheen,  that  is  the  dearest  spot  in  the 
world  to  me,  and  hallowed  by  associations  that  memory  will 
never  give  up.  My  dear,  dear  Inisheen !  My  beautiful  Ini- 
sheen !  And  will  it  be  moonlight  on  that  same  night  seven 
years  hence  ?     Perhaps  I  shall  not  be  so  frightened  then. 

"But  what  I  dread  most  of  all,  Willie,  is  next  Sunday 
morning.  I  know  it  will  be  a  beautiful  morning,  just  to  spite 
me.  And  I  know  how  I  shall  wait  about  the  windov,^  with  all 
my  things  on  long  before  the  time,  and  looking  over  to  the 
clock  of  St.  Anne's,  and  wishing  it  would  push  ahead  and 
make  the  single  Shandon  bell  strike  the  half-hour.  (Why  did 
you  quarrel  with  Miss  Patience,  Willie  ?  It  was  so  nice  to 
listen  for  your  ring  at  the  bell.)  And  then  half  past  ten 
strikes,  and  out  I  go ;  and  I  am  certain  it  will  be  the  loveliest 
morning,  and  the  hawthorn  just  coming  out,  and  all  the  fresh 
air  sweet-scented.  And  no  one  at  the  corner — the  place  quite 
empty — no  ti'ace  of  the  gamekeeperish  young  Apollo  with  the 
shy  eyes  and  the  sun-bi-own  locks,  who  used  to  say,  'The  top  of 
the  morning  to  ye.  Miss  Kitty !'  and  be  so  modest  and  grateful 
for  her  condescension.  Then  away  she  goes,  all  alone,  past 
the  barracks — but  really,  really  and  truly,  honor  bright,  keep- 
ing her  eyes  on  the  ground  the  ichole  ivay  until  she  has  passed 
the  walls — and  then  do  you  know  of  a  lane  about  there.  Master 
Willie  ?  Do  you  know  of  a  lane  about  there  that  you  can  go 
along,  and  twist  and  turn  about,  until  you  get  out  among 
hedge-rows,  w^here  grown-up  children  can  pull  wild  flowers 
and  say  pretty  things  to  each  other  ?  Did  you  ever  go  along 
such  a  lane  ? 

"  But  you  are  not  listening.  You  are  out  walking  with  Mr. 
Superciliousness,  and  if  there's  anybody  in  the  wide  world 
who  hates  you  with  her  whole  heart,  it's  your  despised  but 
forgiving  Kitty." 

He  looked  at  the  beginning  of  the  letter  again. 
"I'm  glad  it  rained  on  Tuesday,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  he 
thought  that  his  conscience  would  perhaps  ubsolv^e  hiui  if  he 


60     .  SHANDON   BELLS. 

put  off  his  work  for  a  little  while  to  send  Kitty  just  as  long  a 
letter  as  she  had  sent  him — cheating  the  great  distance  be- 
tween them,  as  it  were,  and  imagining  himself  talking  to  her  in 
the  little  room  looking  over  the  valley  to  Shandon  tower. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    FIRST    CHECK. 


Time  passed,  and  Fitzgerald  grew  very  anxious  about  not 
hearing  anything,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  concerning  the  re- 
view he  had  sent  to  Mr.  Gifford.  He  ventured  to  mention  the 
matter  to  Hilton  Clarke. 

"Get  it  back,"  he  said,  laughing,  "and  put  John  Brown 
into  it." 

However,  if  each  morning  brought  its  little  paling  of  disap- 
pointment, there  was  no  time  for  balancing  hope  and  fear  dur- 
ing the  rest  of  the  day ;  for  now  the  new  magazine  was  being 
pushed  forward,  and  everybody  had  his  hands  full.  Every- 
body, that  Is  to  say,  except  the  editor-in-chief,  who,  when  Fitz- 
gerald called  on  him  and  urged  him  to  come  down  to  the 
Strand  to  decide  some  matter  or  other,  seemed  much  more 
inclined  for  a  lounge  along  Piccadilly,  if  the  morning  was 
fine,  accompanied  by  this  attentive  Telemachus,  who  willingly 
listened  to  his  discursive  monologue.  By  this  time  Fitzgerald 
had  got  to  know  something  more  about  Hilton  Clarke,  and 
had  observed,  among  other  things,  that  he  seemed  quite  incapa- 
ble of  denying  himself  any  gratification  that  lay  within  his 
reach.  No  matter  what  it  was — having  his  initials  in  silver  on 
his  ivory-backed  hair-brushes,  or  the  purchase  of  an  illumi- 
nated missal  displayed  in  a  shoj)  window — the  whim  of  the 
moment  had  to  be  gratified,  and  he  was  careful  to  point  out  to 
Fitzgerald  that  he,  Hilton  Clarke,  had  already  done  a  good 
deal  for  Mr.  Scobell  in  presenting  him  with  the  idea  of  this 
new  magazine,  and  also  to  assign  as  a  reason  for  his  careless- 
ness or  his  idleness  the  necessity  of  the  business  people  having 
all  their  arrangements  completed  first. 


A  FIRST  CHECK.  61 

One  morning  Fitzgei^ald  went  up  to  the  Albany,  and  found 
his  chief,  with  the  accustomed  cigarette  in  his  hand,  reading 
the  Contes  Remois — or,  more  probably,  and  profitably,  look- 
ing over  the  delightful  little  wood-cuts.  He  put  the  book 
aside  as  Fitzgerald  entered. 

"Mr.  Scobell  has  made  a  suggestion  that  I  think  very  good,'' 
said  the  latter,  after  the  usual  greetings.  ' '  He  thinks  you 
should  have  for  your  opening  article  a  paper  written  by  a  law- 
yer, some  well-known  Q.C.,  for  example,  on  the  terms  of  leases 
and  agreements,  and  the  points  that  should  be  carefully  looked 
after.  ''Points  on  which  a  solicitor  should  he  consulted,^  he 
suggests.  You  know,  lots  of  people  enter  into  agreements 
about  a  shooting  or  a  house  that  look  all  right  and  safe,  but 
that  may  land  them  anywhere.  Now  just  at  the  outset 
wouldn't  that  be  rather  appropriate  V 

Hilton  Clai'ke  looked  at  him. 

"The  suggestion  is  Scobell's." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  don't  think  it  is  a  bad  one;  but  at  the 
outset  it  is  most  important  for  me,  and  for  you,  and  for  Dick 
Scobell  to  know  precisely  where  we  are.  Now  I  am  the  editor 
of  this  new  magazine,  and  Mr.  Scobell  is  not." 

"Yes,"  said  Fitzgerald,  wondering;  "but  surely  you  may 
take  suggestions  from  anybody  if  they  happen  to  be  worth 
anything  ?" 

"From  anybody — excejit  my  propi-ietor,  you  understand. 
No,  we  will  get  our  own  idea  for  an  opening  article,  Fitzger- 
ald, Let's  talk  about  something  you  are  more  familiar  with. 
And  I  have  some  news  for  you.  One  of  the  most  charming 
women  in  London,  one  of  the  wittiest  and  one  of  the  best-look- 
ing, too,  has  expressed  an  interest  m  you." 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  Fitzgerald,  professing  to  be  very  grateful, 
as  in  duty  bound. 

"I  showed  her  your  Woodland  Walk,  and  she  commission- 
ed me  to  ask  you  whether  the  verses  were  your  own — " 

"Which  verses  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  for  indeed  there  were  sev- 
eral little  bits  of  rhyme  cunningly  interwoven  with  that  gossip 
about  birds  and  water-falls. 

"Why,  those  with  the  refrain,  'The  little  ringlets  round  her 
ears.'     Ali,  I  can  see  they  were  your  own.     I  thought  so  my- 


62  SHANDON   BELLS. 

self.     And  I  was  to  ask  whether  the  little  ringlets  were  dark 
or  golden — golden,  she  guessed." 

Fitzgerald  flushed,  and  said,  with  an  indifferent  air,  "I  sup- 
pose the  lines  can  apply  to  any  color — pink  as  well  as  another." 

"You  won't  tell  us,  then  ?  Well,  it  was  a  pretty  notion  to 
bring  the  refrain  in  at  the  end  of  each  verse.  The  music  of  it 
catches  you.-  If  I  were  writing  an  opera,  I  should  have  one 
particular  air  running  all  through  it;  cropping  np  here  and 
there,  you  know,  so  that  people  should  get  quite  familiar  with 
it,  and  be  able  to  whistle  it  as  they  go  home.  You  have  no 
idea  how  consoling  it  is  to  some  people  to  whistle  an  air  from  a 
new  opera  as  they  are  coming  out.  That  is  a  pretty  refrain 
you  have  in  your  verses, 

'  You  hear  the  secret  words  she  hears, 
You  Httle  rhiglets  round  her  ears !' 

Yes,  I  like  it.     The  repetition  is  effective." 

"I  have  been  to  the  lithographer's,"  said  Fitzgerald,  short- 
ly. ' '  The  cover  looks  very  well ;  but  I  have  told  him  to  try 
red  on  a  white  ground.  That  would  be  clearly  seen  on  the 
book-stalls." 

"Ah,  yes,  no  doubt.  Earp  will  see  to  that,  I  suppose.  Now, 
Fitzgerald,  I  suppose  you  know  very  little  about  women  as 
yet?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  the  other. 

"I  know  one  thing  that  will  surprise  you  when  you  find  it 
out,  as  I  dare  say  you  will."  He  stretched  out  his  legs,  and 
regarded  the  tips  of  his  fingers — a  favorite  attitude  of  his  when 
he  had  got  something  he  liked  to  talk  about.  But  sometimes 
he  regarded  his  companion.  "I  am  quite  convinced  myself 
that  there  is  a  large  number  of  women  who  know  nothing 
about,  who  are  incapable  of  knowing  anything  about,  the  ro- 
mantic sentiment  of  love.  They  have  never  exjierieuced  it; 
they  will  never  experience  it ;  and  when  they  read  about  it  in 
books  they  don't  believe  in  it;  they  think  it  is  only  the  ridicu- 
lous exaggerations  of  a  poet  or  a  playwright.  They  no  more 
believe  what  they  read  about  the  passion  of  love  than  a  man 
with  an  unmusical  ear  believes  what  people  say  about  Mo- 
zart, or  than  a  man  whose  eye  is  uneducated  believes  what  is 
written  about  Titian.  But,  mind  yovi,  these  are  the  women  it 
is  safest  to  make  a  marriage  contract  with.     They  will  honor- 


A   FIRST  CHECK.  63 

ably  fulfill  their  part  of  it;  make  good  wives  and  mothers; 
aud  be  affectionate  enough  in  a  trustworthy,  patient,  unima- 
ginative sort  of  way,  without  causing  any  anxiety  or  bother. 
Well,  now,  I  believe  there  are  otlier  women  who  are  just  as 
much  the  other  way — who  have  an  absolute  hunger  and  thirst 
for  the  sentiment  of  love,  for  its  dram-drinking,  as  you  might 
say — women  of  an  unappeasable  heart.  If  it  is  your  bad  luck 
to  come  across  one  of  these  at  the  moment  when  her  affec- 
tions are  by  some  extraordinary  chance  disengaged,  she  will 
almost  certainly  make  you  fall  in  love  with  her;  and  then, 
mind  you,  so  long  as  you  are  near  her,  and  keep  her  amused 
and  occupied  with  fallings  out  and  reconciliations  and  so 
forth,  I  dare  say  she  will  remain  quite  faithful  to  you.  Oh 
yes,  I  have  no  doubt  of  that.  But  if  you  go  away,  that  is  dan- 
gerous. Her  eyes  will  begin  to  roam  about,  and  her  heart  to 
put  out  trembling  little  feelers.  Of  course  if  you  were  to  mar- 
ry her  offhand,  that  might  settle  it;  and  certainly  if  she  had 
children  she  would  probably  keep  all  right,  for  she  would 
transfer  her  excess  of  affection  to  them.  But  to  be  left  alone 
— to  have  this  warm,  generous  little  heart  of  hers  waiting  to  be 
kind  to  somebody,  and  her  young  eyes  wounding  where  they 
look — ^poor  thing  I — how  can  she  help  going  and  playing  the 
mischief  ?" 

"Perhaps  your  experience  of  women  has  been  unfortunate," 
said  Fitzgerald,  as  respectfully  as  possible.  It  was  quite  clear 
to  him  that  Hilton  Clarke  had,  perhaps  in  conjunction  with 
the  clever  lady  he  had  re  fenced  to,  been  speculating  about  the 
person  who  had  inspired  the  verses  in  the  Woodland  WalJc — 
that  is  to  say,  Kitty ;  and  Fitzgerald  resented  this  harmless 
curiosity  as  a  piece  of  intolei^able  impertinence.  They  wanted 
to  know  whether  her  hair  was  dark  or  golden;  they  had  been 
wondering  whether  she  was  a  placid,  faithful,  unsentimental 
good  sort  of  stupid  creature,  or  a  dangerous  flirt — either  sug- 
gestion seeming  to  him  monstrous ;  and  generally,  as  it  appear- 
ed to  him,  they  had  been  betraying  a  quite  gratuitous  interest 
in  his  private  affairs.  But  Hilton  Clarke  continued  as  if  he 
were  quite  unaware  of  the  resentment  that  these  generaliza- 
tions of  his  had  provoked. 

"No,"  he  said,  quietly,  "I  think  not.  And  I  would  call  it 
observation  rather  than  experience.    I  suppose,  now,  you  have 


04  SHANDON  BELLS. 

never  noticed  that  a  woman's  eyes  are  always  wandering  ? 
You  have  never  sat  at  a  table  cVhote,  and  watched,  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing,  have  you  ?" 

"No,  I  should  probably  be  attending  to  my  dinner." 

"Ah,  that  is  it.  That  is  just  it.  If  you  look  at  the  married 
couples,  the  husbands  are  attending  to  their  dinners.  It  is  the 
women  whose  eyes  are  constantly  on  the  alert.  You  may  look 
at  the  man  as  long  as  you  like,  and  he  won't  know  anything 
about  it;  but  look  at  the  woman  only  for  a  second,  and  her 
eyes  will  meet  yours— of  course  instantly  to  turn  away  again. 
Indeed,  I  believe  that  women  can  tell  when  they  are  being  re- 
garded, even  when  their  own  eyes  are  bent  upon  the  table.  It 
is  a  kind  of  instinct." 

"You  seem  to  do  a  good  deal  of  staring  when  you  go  abroad," 
remarked  Fitzgerald. 

' '  No ;  I  think  not.  But  I  have  tined  the  experiment  a  few 
times.  Oh,  by-the-way,  my  charming  friend  says  I  may  take 
you  to  one  of  her  smoking  parties." 

' '  Smoking  parties  ?     Are  there  ladies  there  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"And  they  smoke ?" 

"  If  they  are  inclined  to.  Some  do;  some  don't.  It  is  Lib- 
erty Hall." 

"And  does  the  charming  lady  smoke  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  tim- 
idly. He  wanted  to  know  something  about  her,  as  she  had 
wanted  to  know  something  about  Kitty.  « 

"  Well,  occasionally.  But  she  is  quite  as  willing  to  sit  in  a 
corner  with  you,  and  talk  to  you ;  and  very  soon  you  will  im- 
agine you  are  listening  to  one  of  the  laughing  ladies  out  of 
Boccaccio.     But  it  is  dangerous." 

"What  is?" 

"Her  trying  to  keep  those  parties  away  from  Sir  John's 
ears.  She'd  much  better  own  up.  Some  time  or  other  he'll 
come  back  from  Ireland  unexpectedly,  and  there  will  be  a 
row." 

' '  Sir  John  is  her  husband,  I  suppose  ?" 

' '  Yes.  I've  asked  her  to  wi'ite  an  article  on  grass-widows 
for  our  magazine,  and  I'll  have  to  see  it  doesn't  set  Clapham 
in  a  blaze — Islington,  rather.  But  we  sha'n't  have  many  sub- 
scribers in  Islington." 


A  FIRST  CHECK.  65 

"  I  think  I  must  be  off  now,"  said  Fitzgerald,  rising.  "You 
think,  tlien,  Mr.  Scobell  had  better  not  s^ieak  about  that  article 
to  a  lawyer  ?" 

"I  think,  with  Mr.  Scobell's  permission,  I  will  edit  the  mag- 
azine myself.  And  so  I  am  not  to  take  any  message  about  the 
little  ringlets  round  her  ears?" 

"  Oh,  certainly.  I  told  you,"  said  Fitzgerald,  "  that  pink 
was  a  good  color.     Let  them  be  pink,  if  you  like." 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  the  other,  laughing.  "You  won't  be  so 
uncommunicative  when  a  certain  bright-eyed  lady  gets  you 
into  a  corner  and  talks  to  you,  and  asks  to  be  allowed  to  light 
her  cigarette  at  yours.  That  is  coming  very  near,  isn't  it  ? 
Good-by.  Oh,  about  that  review:  if  you  are  anxious,  why 
don't  you  call  and  ask  Gifford  about  it  ?" 

"I  would,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hesitatingly,  "  if  I  thought  I 
shouldn't  be  driving  him." 

"  Oh,  bother  himl"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  cheerfully.  "If  he 
does  not  want  it,  we  can  use  it  in  the  magazine." 

That  parting  touch  took  away  all  Fitzgerald's  resentment. 
The  man  was  really  good-natured.  And  even  supposing  he 
had  been  driving  his  questions  or  his  surmises  about  Kitty  a 
little  too  close,  might  it  not  have  been  through  a  really  friend- 
ly interest  ?  Then,  again,  it  was  something  that  so  great  and 
acknowledged  an  authority  as  Hilton  Clarke  had  looked  favor- 
ably on  the  little  verses.  Fitzgerald  had  placed  no  great  store 
by  them  himself.  He  had,  indeed,  hidden  them  away  in  a 
rambling  sort  of  gossip,  imagining  that  no  one  but  Kitly  and 
himself  would  know  that  he  himself  had  written  them.  And 
as  they  had  pleased  the  great  critic,  he  would  write  to  Kitty 
and  tell  her.     Had  she  not  a  soi't  of  joint  ownership  in  them  ? 

Fitzgerald  had  now  to  return  to  the  Strand ;  and  as  he  was 
walking  along  that  thoroughfare,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  he  would  take  Hilton  Clarke's  advice,  and  call  at  the 
Liberal  Revieiv  office,  and  so  put  an  end  to  his  anxiety.  The 
advice  was  well  meant ;  but  it  was  injudicious ;  and  still  more 
injudicious  was  Fitzgerald's  choice  of  an  opportunity.  To  go 
and  worry  an  editor  about  a  neglected  manuscript  is  a  mistake 
at  any  time ;  but  to  do  so  before  luncheon  is  pure  madness. 
When  the  morning  scramble  of  correspondence  is  well  over, 
when  the  frugal  chop  and  pint  of  claret  have  moderated  the 


66  SHANDON   BELLS. 

sceva  indignatio  produced  by  the  contrariety  of  things,  and 
when,  perhaps,  the  mild  Manila  and  the  evening  papers  may 
be  still  further  inducing  the  editorial  mind  to  repose,  then,  in- 
deed, there  may  be  hope  for  the  anxious  inquii'er;  but  not 
before.  Fitzgerald  had  to  wait  some  twenty  minutes  in  the 
office,  during  which  time  there  was  a  constant  passing  up  and 
down  stairs  on  the  part  of  strangers,  whom  he  regarded  with 
considerable  awe.  Then  a  boy  brought  him  a  message  that 
Mr.  Gifford  could  see  him,  and  he  followed  the  inky-fingered 
Mercury.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  was  standing  very  much  like 
a  culprit  in  front  of  a  long  writing-table;  and  Mr.  Gifford,  who 
was  on  tlie  other  side,  and  who  looked  impatient  and  troubled 
and  hurried,  was  plunging  to  and  fro  in  a  sea  of  manuscripts. 

"Ah,  here  it  is,"  he  said  at  last.  "Sit  down.  Glad  you 
have  called.  I  meant  to  write.  Well,  you  see — "  He  looked 
over  a  page  or  two,  and  an  expression  of  dissatisfaction  was 
very  plainly  on  his  face.  "Why,  you  seem  to  have  found 
nothing  in  the  book,  one  way  or  the  other  1" 

If  Fitzgerald  had  had  his  wits  about  him,  he  would  perhaps 
have  remarked  that  that  was  precisely  what  he  had  found  in 
the  book ;  but  he  was  far  too  disturbed  and  aghast  at  the  quer- 
ulous fashion  in  which  the  editor  spoke  of  the  article  upon 
which  he  had  built  so  many  hopes. 

"No,  I  don't  think  this  will  do,"  continued  Mr.  Gifford, 
looking  over  the  pages.  "I  am  sorry  to  have  given  you  the 
trouble;  but  really  you  have  made  nothing  out  of  the  book. 
Surely  there  must  be  something  in  it,  good  or  bad ;  you  have 
found  it  nothing  but  lukewarm,  like  the  Church  of  the  Lace- 
demonians. There  is  no  flavor  in  what  you  have  written. 
Look  there!" 

Fitzgerald  was  too  agitated  to  think  of  putting  the  Laodi- 
ceans  in  their  proper  historical  place;  he  mechanically  took 
from  Mr.  Gifford  a  printed  slip  which  the  latter  jjulled  off  a 
file.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  proof  of  a  bookseller's  advei'tise- 
ment ;  and  at  the  head  of  the  column  appeared  the  contents  of 
the  forth-coming  number  of  a  great  Quarterly. 

"Do  you  see  ?"  continued  Mi".  Giffoi'd.  "  That  article  about 
'  A  New  Novelist'  has  been  called  forth  by  this  very  book  that 
you  see  nothing  in ;  and  I  am  told  they  regard  its  publication 
as  marking  a  new  departure  in  modern  English  literature." 


A  FIRST   CHECK.  67 

"Then  I  say  that  that  is  most  shameful,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
driven  to  desperation.  "There  must  have  been  bribery  or 
personal  influence.  The  book  is  as  weak  and  feeble  as  it  can 
be;  it  is  a  scandal  to  English  journalism  that  bribery  of  some 
kind  or  another  should  have  got  such  an  article  written." 

"How  can  you  tell?"  said  the  other,  peevishly.  "In  your 
opinion  the  book  is  bad.  Other  people  may  not  think  so. 
And  even  you  don't  seem  to  think  the  book  bad  enough  to  call 
forth  any  definite  disparagement." 

"  It  is  merely  frivolous." 

"  And  you  are  even  complimentary  here  and  there.  Well, 
then,  perhaps  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  point  out  some  things 
that  may  be  of  service  to  you.  You  know  you  ought  to  be 
accurate  in  your  quotations : 

'  De  par  le  Rot,  defetise  a  Die^i 
D'operer  miracle  en  ce  lieu.'' 

D'operer  instead  of  de  faire  miracle,  and  that  in  so  familiar  a 
quotation — " 

"  But  d'operer  is  right,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily  Interrupting. 

GifFord  stopped  and  regarded  him. 

"Oh,  is  it?  What  is  your  authority?  I  should  have 
thought  the  old  jaolice  distich  was  well  enough  known." 

Fitzgerald  was  so  anxious  to  justify  himself  that  his  memory 
failed  him  altogether  at  this  critical  point.  Nothing  but  con- 
fusion met  him  when  he  tried  to  recall  where  he  had  met 
with  that  luckless  couplet.  And  so  Mr.  Gifford,  turning  fi'om 
him  to  the  manuscript,  proceeded: 

"Then  you  introduce  extraneous  matter  for  no  sufficient 
reason.  You  say  here,  'One  might  arrive  at  a  sort  of  nega- 
tive definition  of  poetry  by  saying  that  it  was  precisely  that 
quality  which  is  conspicuously  absent  from  every  page  of 
Pope,  and  which  is  conspicuously  present  in  almost  every  line 
of  Coleridge.'  Now  what  is  the  use  of  advancing  an  opinion 
like  that  ?" 

"  One  of  the  characters  in  the  book — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Gilford,  with  an  impatience  that  was 
scarcely  civil ;  though  it  was  most  likely  he  had  been  worried 
about  something  or  other  that  morning ;  ' '  but  a  reviewer  can 
not  be  expected  to  set  all  the  opinions  of  all  the  characters  in  a 


68  SHANDON  BELLS. 

book  right.  And  when  you  proceed  to  remove  Pope  from  the 
category  of  English  poets,  you  want  more  than  a  single  sen- 
tence if  you  would  justify  yourself.  It  is  not  enough  for  you 
to  say  that  such  and  such  a  thing  is:  you  must  prove  it  to  be 
so.  You  can't  go  and  settle  half  a  hundred  disputed  literaiy 
points  in  the  course  of  a  single  book  notice — " 

"I  am  sorry  it  won't  do,"  said  Fitzgerald,  lifting  his  hat. 
"I  may  as  well  take  the  manuscript  with  me,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  had  the  trouble;  but  one  must  learn 
reviewing  as  other  things ;  and  perhaps  I  made  a  mistake  in 
thinking  you  had  had  enough  practice.  There  are  one  or 
two  other  points  I  might  show  you." 

"Oh  no,  thank  you;  no,  thank  you,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with 
great  courtesy ;  "I  w ouldn't  trouble  you.  I  must  not  take 
up  so  much  of  your  time.  Good-morning.  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you." 

And  so  he  got  himself  out  of  the  office  with  all  his  mind 
aflame.  It  was  not  so  much  disappointment  as  indignation 
that  consumed  him — indignation  that  such  a  book  should  be 
made  so  great  a  matter  of,  simply  because  it  was  written  by  a 
member  of  the  government,  by  a  man  in  political  life.  What 
was  the  objection,  then,  to  this  review  but  that  he  had  not 
made  it  violent  enough  either  with  praise  or  blame  ?  If  he  had 
made  of  it  a  balloon,  now,  and  tied  the  worthless  volumes  to  it 
and  sent  thena  up  into  the  blue,  or  if  he  had  made  a  nether 
millstone  of  it  and  hung  it  round  Spencer  Tollemache's  neck 
and  plunged  him  in  mid-ocean,  no  doubt  the  black-browed 
editor  would  have  been  charmed.  But  because  he  had  merely 
told  the  truth,  the  review  was  lukewann,  like  the  Lacedemoni- 
ans. The  Lacedemonians!  And  de  faire  miracle! — he  knew 
it  vras  (Toperer  miracle  !  As  for  Pope,  he  declared  to  himself 
that  the  w^hole  "Essay  on  Man,"  boiled  down  and  strained 
through  a  cotton  rag,  would  not  produce  as  much  poetry  as 
you  could  find  in  a  single  phrase  of  Herrick's  or  Suckling's. 
And  then  he  devoted  the  whole  art  and  function  of  criticism 
to  the  infernal  gods;  and  then — in  the  middle  of  the  Strand, 
among  the  hurrying  strangers — ^he  laughed  lightly. 

For  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  to  betray  such  temper, 
or  to  feel  so  keenly  his  disappointment,  was  not  bearing  out 


A  FIRST  CHECK.  69 

the  character  that  Andy  the  Hopper  had  g-iven  of  him  to  Kit- 
ty. Was  he  going-  to  allow  this  first  bit  of  misfortune  to  cast 
him  down  ?  He  began  to  regard  the  matter  from  a  common- 
sense  point  of  view.  After  all,  his  being  debarred  from  fur- 
ther hope  of  contributing  to  the  Liberal  Review  (and  he  had  to 
admit  that  Mr.  Gifford's  manner  seemed  conclusive  on  that 
point)  did  not  necessarily  doom  him  to  starvation.  And  why 
should  he  be  angry  with  the  great  Quarterly,  even  if  it  had 
been  unduly  influenced  ?  The  public  would  speedily  put  the 
matter  right  by  leaving  the  book,  if  it  was  worthless,  unread. 
When  he  came  to  think  of  it,  moreover,  there  might  be  some 
justification  for  Mr.  Gilford's  harsh  censure,  regarding  the  ar- 
ticle from  the  editorial  point  of  view.  Doubtless  he  ought  to 
have  left  Pope  alone.  He  should  not  have  altered  a  familiar 
quotation  without  being  ready  with  his  authority.  In  fact, 
by  the  time  that  he  had  reached  Charing  Cross  he  had  con- 
vinced himself  tbat  the  world  was  not  so  much  amiss;  and 
this  gradual  revival  from  his  fit  of  disappointment  did  not  at 
all  stop  there;  but  quite  suddenly — and  in  a  manner  that  seem- 
ed to  fill  all  the  dusky  sunlight  of  the  Strand  with  a  sort  of 
rose-color — it  sprang  to  a  wild  resolve.  What  if  he  were  to  go 
away  back  to  Ireland,  and  s^iend  a  day  among  the  hawthorn 
lanes  with  Kitty  ? 

He  could  not  resist.  The  rebound  from  that  extreme  de- 
pression carried  him  away  with  it ;  and  only  the  necessity  of 
having  to  buy  a  Bradshaw  and  get  some  information  out  of 
that  distressing  volume  succeeded  in  calming  down  this  be- 
wildering delight  and  anticipation  that  had  seized  hold  of  him. 
Yes,  by  taking  the  mail  train  to  Bristol  that  night,  which  was 
a  Friday,  he  could  reach  Cork  on  the  Saturday  evening;  and 
then  the  Sunday  morning — and  his  meeting  Kitty — and  clasp- 
ing her  warm  white  little  hand !  The  whole  trip  would  cost 
little  over  two  pounds:  was  it  not  his  only  chance  before  the 
long  drudgery  of  the  new  magazine  began  ?  A  hundred  times 
over  he  pictured  to  himself  Kitty's  face  when  she  should  sud- 
denly see  him  there  waiting  for  her,  and  each  time  tlie  expres- 
sion was  different.  And  as  for  reviews,  and  quotations,  and 
black-browed  editors,  and  any  fifteen  dozen  of  Daphne's  Sliad- 
OM's,  he  let  all  these  things  slip  entirely  away  from  him,  to  be 
lost  in  the  jangle  and  roar  of  the  mighty  town  he  was  leaving. 


70  SHANDON  BELLS. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  them  at  all.  He  was  thinking  of 
Sunday  morning  and  of  Kitty's  tender  look  of  wonder  and 
welcome. 

It  was  about  a  quarter  past  eight  in  the  evening  when  he 
reached  Cork,  and  they  were  just  beginning  to  light  the  lamps. 
There  was  still  a  lurid  sort  of  twilight  in  the  stormy  purple- 
blue  sky,  and  the  pavements  were  of  a  wan  gray ;  but  one  aft- 
er another  the  orange  points  of  the  lamps  declared  themselves, 
and  here  and  thei*e  a  warm  glow  shone  out  from  the  shop  win- 
dows. The  omnibus  rattled  through  the  town,  past  the  black 
groups  of  idlers;  now  and  again  a  woman  darting  out  with  an 
angry  objurgation  to  snatch  in  a  vagrant  child.  He  had  been 
looking  forward  to  his  passing  through  the  familiar  streets  as 
a  sort  of  dream.  Now  it  seemed  strangely  real.  That  sense  of 
being  at  home  that  he  had  never  experienced  in  the  vast  wil- 
derness of  London  had  possession  of  him  again ;  the  accent  of 
the  people  had  a  pleasant,  almost  pathetic,  touch  in  it ;  he  seem- 
ed to  know  them  so  well,  to  have  got  back  among  old  friends. 

But  he  was  not  going  to  seek  to  see  Miss  Romayne  that  night, 
wildly  as  his  heart  beat  when  he  thought  of  her  being  so  near 
him — just  over  there  in  the  darkness — little  thinking  of  what 
was  in  store  for  her.  No;  he  would  wait  for  the  morning;  he 
would  have  nothing  less  than  the  fresh  and  clear  May  morn- 
ing to  show  him  the  sudden,  glad  love-light  leap  into  Kitty's 
wondering  eyes. 


WHEN  ALL  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG."  71 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"when  ALL  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG." 

Master  Willie  was  up  and  abroad  early  the  next  morning' 
— too  early,  indeed,  for  anything  but  a  stroll  through  the  wide, 
empty,  silent  thoroughfares  of  Cork.  It  was  a  lovely  morn- 
ing; the  sunlight  shining  clear  on  the  tall  fronts  of  the  houses, 
and  on  the  deserted  streets;  a  light  breeze  from  the  south 
bringing  with  it  suggestions  of  the  sea ;  the  silence  only 
broken  by  the  occasional  soft  tolling  of  a  distant  bell.  Was  it 
the  silence  of  this  Sunday  morning  that  made  the  place  seem 
so  strange? — for  surely  he  had  not  been  long  enough  in  Lon- 
don to  have  forgotten  these  familiar  streets.  Or  was  the  keen 
interest  and  even  affection  with  which  he  regarded  so  well- 
known  a  thoroughfare  as  the  South  Mall,  for  example,  due  to 
far  other  causes  ?  Suppose  that  as  he  walked  along  he  did  not 
see  this  actual  sunlight  around  him  at  all ;  suppose  that  in- 
stead he  was  imagining  these  pavements  swimming  wet  on  a 
dark  and  miserable  week-day  night;  the  cars  rattling  by  and 
splashing  mud;  and  two  figures,  closely  holding  together,  arm 
in  arm,  under  one  umbrella?  And  suppose  now  that  he  sees 
one  of  these  two  look  suddenly  up  to  her  companion  with  a 
quick,  earnest  gaze — a  look  of  revelation,  confession,  complete 
surrender  of  love — a  look  that  pledged  her  life  away  ?  For 
even  the  South  Mall,  in  its  canopy  of  darkness  and  rain,  may 
inclose  the  rose-red,  shining  jewel  of  a  love-secret. 

So  he  walked  hither  and  thither  to  pass  the  time  away,  half 
dreaming  of  these  recent  days  that  already  seemed  to  be  grow- 
ing distant,  until  he  found  himself  in  the  broad  and  winding 
thorouglafare  of  St.  Patrick's  Street,  where  more  passers-by 
were  now  becoming  visible.  Was  this,  then,  the  part  of  the 
Beautiful  City  that  he  had  tried  to  persuade  Kitty  was  like 
Venice  ?  He  looked  at  the  place  with  a  new  interest  (com- 
paring it  with  the  Fulham  Road),  and  perhaps  also,  as  he 
thought  of  Kitty,  with  a  trifle  of  compunction.  But  at  all 
events  it  was  picturesque  enough  — these  masses  of  tall,  nar- 


73  SHANDON  BELLS. 

row,  variously  built  houses  in  all  sorts  of  architecture ;  their 
slate  fronts,  their  red-brick  fronts,  their  plaster  fronts,  their 
stone  fronts,  their  bow  windows,  flat  windows,  and  French 
windows  all  shining  in  the  sun,  and  their  uneven  sky-line 
sharp  against  the  blue;  and  if  he  did  make  that  bold  compar- 
ison to  Kitty,  no  doubt  he  pointed  out  to  her  that  they  were 
standing  on  an  island ;  that  there  was  actually  water  I'unning 
below  the  street;  the  street  itself  leading  down  tliere  to  the 
canal-like  Lee,  with  its  busy  quays  and  boats  and  bridges.  He 
looked  at  his  watch — it  was  half  past  nine:  would  Kitty  chance 
to  have  put  on  that  pretty  soft  gray  silk  dress  he  was  so  fond 
of,  with  its  touch  of  deep  crimson  here  and  there  ?  Poor  Kit- 
ty :  she  did  not  know  he  was  down  here  by  St.  Patrick's  Bridge, 
looking  at  the  boats. 

He  crossed  the  river  and  began  to  ascend  leisurely  enough 
the  steep  and  rugged  little  thoroughfare  leading  to  Audley 
Place.  Every  step  had  an  interest  for  him;  he  recognized 
every  feature  of  it — the  red  road,  the  white  walls  hot  in  the 
sun,  the  soft  gi*een  of  the  foliage,  hei'e  and  there  the  golden 
tresses  of  a  laburnum  hanging  over  from  a  garden.  And  Kit- 
ty had  to  toil  wp  this  steej)  ascent  on  the  dark  nights  going 
home — sometimes  getting  wet,  too,  for  want  of  a  covered  car. 
That  was  because  the  Prince  had  not  found  his  bag  of  dia- 
monds yet.  Never  mind;  the  world  had  not  come  to  an  end 
merely  because  Mr.  GifPord  did  not  like  the  review  of  Daph- 
ne's Shadoiv ;  and  Kitty  might  have  even  something  better 
than  a  covered  car,  all  in  due  time. 

At  length  he  reached  the  little  terrace  on  the  top  of  the  hill 
that  is  known  as  Audley  Place;  and  he  passed  along  to  the 
end,  so  that  Kitty  should  not  see  him  prematurely ;  and  leaned 
his  arms  on  the  red  stone  wall  that  inclosed  a  meadow,  in  the 
long  grass  of  which  rooks  were  loudly  cawing.  How  well  he 
knew  the  spacious  jDicture  that  now  lay  before  him ! — of  Cork, 
and  its  surroundings,  and  the  outlying  country.  The  bulk 
of  the  city,  it  is  true,  lay  down  there  in  the  hollow  to  the  left ; 
a  dishevelled  heap  of  purple  slate  roofs  softened  over  by  a 
pale  blue  smoke,  with  masses  of  dark  green  foliage  farther  up 
the  valley,  and  a  glimmer  here  and  there  of  the  Lee.  But 
then  from  the  deeip  of  this  ravine  the  hill  opposite  him  sloped 
gradually  upward,  the  slate  roofs  becoming  less  and  less  dense, 


"when  all  the  world  was  young."  73 

until  in  mid-air  rose  erect  and  tall  and  square  the  dark  red 
tower  of  St.  Anne's,  which  holds  the  Shan  don  bells ;  at  the 
foot  of  it  the  little  church-yard,  with  its  gray  stones,  and  the 
green  and  gold  of  grass  and  buttercups  together.  Then,  still 
getting  higher,  the  houses  grow  fewer ;  the  sunlight  catching 
here  and  there  on  a  white  gable  among  the  gardens ;  the 
town  loses  itself  in  the  country;  there  are  lush  meadows  dot- 
ted with  sheep ;  there  are  tall  hedges  powdered  with  hawthorn 
blossom ;  there  is  a  farm-house  half  hidden  among  the  elms. 
And  then,  finally,  the  long,  softly  undulating  sky-line,  brill- 
iant in  the  sunny  green  of  the  spring-time,  meets  the  tender 
aerial  blue  of  the  morning  sky,  and  we  reach  the  limits  of 
what  is  visible  from  the  red  stone  wall,  or  even  fi'om  Kitty 
Romayne's  window  behind  us. 

Master  Willie's  heart  was  very  full ;  for  there  was  not  a  wide 
thoroughfare  in  that  dusky  city — no,  nor  a  little  by-path  in 
the  suburbs,  nor  a  winding  road  leading  through  the  fair  green 
country  beyond — that  he  and  Kitty  had  not  made  themselves 
familiar  with  in  their  long  perambulations.  And  Shandon 
tower  over  there — how  could  he  forget  the  pretty  speech  she 
made  him  when  he  had  casually  said  it  was  odd  of  the  build- 
ers to  have  made  this  one  side  of  it  next  them  red  and  the 
other  three  sides  gray  ?  "I  am  going  to  be  like  Shandon 
steeple,  Willie ;  and  the  rose-red  side  of  my  love  will  always 
be  turned  to  you ;  and  other  people  may  think  me  gray  if  they 
like."  Perhaps  it  was  a  trifle  incoherent;  but  Kitty  was  not  a 
literary  person ;  and  at  all  events  he  knew  what  she  meant. 

The  slow  hands  of  Shandon  clock  w^ere  now  invisibly  draw- 
ing toward  half  past  ten ;  and  so  he  thought  he  would  go  round 
the  corner  and  await  her  there,  where  their  meeting  could  be 
observed  by  no  one.  He  paced  up  and  down  by  this  tall  gray 
cheerless  stone  wall;  and  he  wished  the  villain  rooks  would 
not  make  such  a  cawing.  But  nevertheless  the  silence  was 
sufficient  to  let  him  hear  the  swinging  of  a  gate.  Then  he 
listened,  his  heart  like  to  choke  him.  Then — he  could  not 
tell  how  it  happened — the  world  became  just  filled  with  a  wild 
delight ;  for  here  was  the  identical  soft  gray  dress,  and  the  pret- 
ty little  figure,  and  Kitty  herself,  who  was  passing  him  with- 
out looking  up.  But  what  was  this  ?  Was  she  crying  ?  Was 
she  trying  to  hide  her  face  from  any  stranger? 

4 


74  SHANDON  BELLS, 

"  Kitty '.—Kitty,  what  is  the  matter?" 

She  turned  instantly — the  wet  eyes  startled,  her  face  grown 
suddenly  pale;  and  then,  after  one  second  of  wild  bewilder- 
ment and  joy,  she  threw  herself  sobbing  and  crying  into  his 
arms. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you  after  all,  Willie!  I  thought  you  were  com- 
ing to-day ;  I  thought  of  it  all  the  morning ;  and  then  to  come 
out  and  find  no  one — " 

"  But  how  could  you  think  I  was  coming,  my  darling?"  he 
cried. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  almost  wildly; 
"something  in  a  letter,  I  think.  See,  I  put  on  the  dress  you 
liked,  I  made  so  sure — but,  but — oh,  you  have  come  to  me  after 
all,  Willie;"  and  with  that  she  kissed  him,  and  kissed  both  his 
hands,  and  kissed  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  half  a  dozen  times, 
holding  his  arm  tight  the  while.  "  Oh,  don't  go  away  again, 
Willie !  Don't  leave  me  again.  I  can  not  live  without  you — it 
is  not  living  at  all.  You  won't  go  away  again,  Willie,  will 
you  ?     We  will  live  on  nothing  rather." 

The  light  that  was  shining  in  her  eyes  as  she  regarded  him ! 

"  And  they  haven't  altered  your  looks  a  bit,  Willie — not 
one  bit.  My  bonny  boy !  Promise  me  you'll  never,  never, 
never  go  away  again,  Willie !" 

"Well,  you  audacious  creature!"  he  said,  putting  straight 
the  pretty  little  gray  hat  with  its  crimson  feather.  ' '  Whose 
fiery  ambition  was  it  sent  me  away  ?" 

"Oh,  but  I've  found  out  my  fault;  and  haven't  I  cried 
enough  about  it  too  ?  I  don't  want  any  more  ambition  ;  I 
want  you,  Willie ;  and  I'd  work  for  you  if  I  were  to  work  my 
fingers  off." 

But  at  this  moment  a  smart  young  corporal,  having  emerged 
from  the  gate  of  the  barracks,  came  along  the  road  whistling 
"  Garry ow en"  and  twirling  his  small  cane.  So  Kitty  had  to 
dry  her  eyes  and  look  jjresen table ;  and  she  slipped  her  hand 
into  her  lover's  arm,  and  they  proceeded  on  their  way — well 
known  to  both  of  them. 

"  That  is  a  most  praiseworthy  sentiment,  Kitty,"  he  said,  in 
answer  to  her  proposal.  "I  suppose  you  would  sing  in  the 
streets,  and  I  could  enjoy  myself  in  an  ale-house  with  a  long 
pipe — isn't  that  how  it  generally  ends?     But  now  that  I've 


"when  all  the  world  was  young."  75 

begun,  I'm  going  on;  and  some  day  or  other  Kitty  won't 
have  to  get  wet  through  in  going  home  from  a  concert  at 
night—" 

"  Oh,  Willie,  that  is  too  cruel !  Did  I  ever  complain  ?  What 
a  stupid  I  was  to  mention  it  even — " 

' '  Never  mind.  You  see,  I've  got  a  very  fair  start,  Kitty — 
four  pounds  a  week  for  a  half -mechanical  kind  of  work  that 
will  leave  me  many  chances  of  getting  ahead  in  other  direc- 
tions. And  what  have  you  to  say  now.  Miss  Eomayne,  about 
the  person  you  suspected  so  much  ?  I  think  you  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  him.  I  don't  know  any  one  else  who  would  have 
so  gone  out  of  his  way  to  befriend  a  stranger." 

"  That's  like  you,"  said  Miss  Eomayne,  promptly.  "You're 
too  simple.  My  dearest,  you  think  everybody's  like  yourself. 
Don't  I  see  through  your  fine  friend  ?  Everything  you  have 
told  me  in  your  letters  confirms  it.  I  can  see  it.  The  fact 
is,  he  never  thought  about  that  magazine  until  he  saw  you  at 
Inisheen;  and  then  he  thought  he  could  make  some  use  of 
such  an  unusual  combination  of  knowledge  of  all  kinds  of  out- 
of-door  sports  along  with  litei'ary  genius — " 

"  Hillo,  Kitty ;  we're  on  the  line  of  high  phrases." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  coolly,  "if  you  don't  know  what  you  are,  I 
do.  It  was  you  who  gave  him  the  idea  of  the  magazine — I  will 
wager  anything — " 

"A  kiss?" 

"Yes — and  pay  you  now  if  you  like." 

By  this  time  they  had  got  to  the  end  of  Fairy  Lane — which 
may  be  a  Fairy  Lane  enough  in  certain  circumstances,  though 
as  a  matter  of  fact  it  has  a  gaunt  stone  wall  on  one  side  and  a 
row  of  commonplace  little  cottages  on  the  other — and  were 
making  their  way  round  by  the  back  of  the  barracks,  by  rugged 
little  roads  and  crumbling  walls  and  stunted  hedges,  to  the 
open  country. 

"I  say,"  continued  Miss  Eomayne,  "that  he  got  the  idea 
of  that  magazine  from  you.  Gratitude,  indeed !  Where  else 
could  he  have  found  any  one  fit  for  such  a  place  ?  Where 
else  could  he  have  got  any  one  who  knows  all  about  hounds, 
and  horses,  and  salmon,  and  things  like  that,  and  who  has  the 
education,  and  ability,  and  humor  of  a  delightful  writer  to 
make  it  all — all— all  just  delightful  ?" 


76  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"But  wait  a  minute,  Kitty,"  said  lie.  "Are  you  so  sure 
about  all  those  nice  things  ?     I  know  I  can  shoot  snipe — " 

"  And  you  once  brought  down  a  wild-duck,"  said  Kitty,  de- 
murely. "Crippled  her  entirely — she  couldn't  fly  away  a 
wee  bit  ever  after." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  be  just  to  Hilton  Clarke — but  for  the 
post  he  has  given  me  do  you  think  I'd  be  here  this  morning  ? 
— and  I  want  to  assure  you,  Kitty,  that  everybody  doesn't 
regard  my  literary  masterpieces  as  you  do.  I  told  you  about 
the  review  I  had  written.  Of  course  I  should  have  been 
awfully  glad  to  get  an  article  into  the  Liberal  Review — even 
if  it  had  been  only  three  times  a  year.  I  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  thing  being  possible — " 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  possible.     You  told  me — " 

"I  called  on  Mr.  Gifford  on  Friday.  Oh,  he  wouldn't  have 
it  at  all." 

But  Kitty  was  not  the  one  to  be  daunted. 

"The  more  fool  he!"  she  said,  with  decision.  Nay,  she 
stamped  her  little  foot,  and  said:  "And  if  he  were  here,  I 
would  tell  him  so !  Why,  these  old  fossils  are  all  running  in 
grooves — " 

"But  fossils  don't  run  in  grooves,  Kitty." 

"And  they  can't  recognize  fresh  talent,"  she  continued,  not 
heeding  him  in  her  wrath.  "How  could  they  be  expected  to 
recognize  yours?  You  haven't  been  brought  up  in  libraries 
and  inky  dens  all  your  life.  You  have  been  brought  up  face 
to  face  with  the  real  things  of  the  world — with  the  sea,  and 
the  sky,  and  the  dark  nights,  and  the  winter,  and  all  about 
Inisheen  that  you  have  told  me.  That's  living ;  that's  not 
talking  about  living,  or  earning  your  bread  by  writing  about 
what  other  people  have  said  about  living.  What  would  Mr, 
Gifford  have  done  when  the  ship  came  ashore  at  Kenvane 
Head  ?  Do  you  think  he  could  have  scrambled  down  the 
cliffs  to  help  the  fishermen — " 

' '  But  his  business  is  to  write,  Kitty — " 

"It  is  not;  it  is  to  write  about  other  people's  writing,"  she 
said,  promptly.  "Why,  I'd  like  to  have  seen  him  wi-ite  that 
description  of  that  very  thing — the  struggles  of  the  fishermen, 
and  then  the  captain's  wife  refusing  to  be  saved  because  her 
child  was  drowned.     Would  there  have  been  any  need  to  cry 


"when  all  the  world  was  young."  77 

if  he  had  written  it  ?  Would  they  have  got  up  a  subscription 
if  he  had  written  it  ?  No,  I  think  not.  And  I  should  like  to 
see  him  try  to  throw  a  salmon  line  thirty-eight  yards!  And 
do  you  think  he  could  have  climbed  up  the  face  of  the  Priest's 
Rock  with  a  gun  in  his  hand  ?" 

"But  these  things  are  not  necessary  to  the  editing  of  a  pa- 
per, Kitty,"  said  he,  laughing.  "And  it's  veiy  kind  of  you 
to  try  and  find  excuses ;  but  I  am  afraid  tlie  truth  was  that  I 
wrote  a  bad  review,  and  Mr.  Giflford  properly  said  no.  Well, 
I  was  very  down-hearted  about  it — " 

"You!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  smile  of  skepticism.  "No, 
you  can't  make  me  believe  that.  The  thing  isn't  in  existence 
that  is  likely  to  turn  your  hair  gray. " 

' '  Unless  it's  you  yourself,  Kitty ; — what  do  you  say  to  that  ? 
But  I  was — entirely  down  in  my  boots ;  for  I'd  rather  see  an 
article  of  mine  printed  in  the  Liberal  Revieiv  than  be  made 
Lord-Lieutenant  and  live  at  the  Castle.  And  then  I  walked 
along  a  bit;  and  then  I  thought  that  the  hawthorn  must  be  out 
about  the  woods  and  hedges  here ;  and  that  you  would  be  hav- 
ing your  Sunday  morning  walk  all  alone ;  and  then  I  said  to 
myself,  '  I'm  going  to  see  Kitty,  whatever  happens !'  " 

"And  if  it  was  Mr.  Gilford  that  led  you  to  say  that,  Willie, 
I'll  forgive  him ;  though  I  still  think  him  a  stupid  person  who 
doesn't  know  his  own  interests.  Oh,  I  made  so  sure  you 
would  be  at  the  gate  this  morning !  You  told  me  last  week 
always  to  look  out  for  the  unexpected,  or  something  like  that; 
and  what  do  I  care  to  expect  about  or  think  about  except  you  ? 
I  haven't  had  on  this  dress  since  you  left;  I  thought  I  would 
keep  it  till  you  came  back.  Miss  Patience  said  this  morning, 
'  Catherine,  why  are  you  taking  out  that  gray  dress  again  V 
and  I  said,  '  Well,  I  can't  have  all  my  things  saturated  with 
camphor;  I  must  take  them  out  and  air  them  sometimes.' 
And  then  when  I  came  out  and  saw  no  one,  I — I  thought  it 
was  too  bad.  I  don't  know  whether  I  was  angry  with  you,  or 
with  myself,  or  London  and  the  tall  yellow  man — " 

' '  Now,  now,  Kitty,  none  of  that !  How  can  you  be  spiteful 
on  such  a  morning  ?  See,  here  is  a  bit  of  hawthorn ;  let  me 
pin  it  on  for  you.  I  thought  the  hawthorn  would  be  out. 
The  hedges  over  there  look  as  if  there  was  snow  on  them." 

By  this  time  their  arm-in-arm  loiterings  and  meanderings 


78  SHANDON  BELLS. 

had  brought  them  within  view  of  a  spacious  tract  of  country 
that  lay  fair  in  the  warm  and  clear  sunlight.  The  landscape, 
it  is  true,  was  somewhat  marred  by  certain  tall  chimneys  that 
rose  in  the  valley  below,  with  mountains  of  refuse  hard  by, 
and  a  coal-black  railway  line  twistmg  through ;  but  there  was 
no  need  for  them  to  look  that  way  unless  they  liked.  Here 
on  these  sunny  uplands  were  still  meadows  all  bestarred  with 
daisies,  and  hedges  white  with  the  fresh-scented  May,  and  over 
there  were  softly  foliaged  woods  all  in  the  tender  green  of  the 
spring-time.  Then  the  fair  mansion  on  that  distant  hill — look- 
ing so  white  among  the  trees :  had  its  stately  repose  any  attrac- 
tion for  youthful  eyes  and  thoughts  ?  Was  there  any  dream 
of  resting  in  some  such  place,  away  above  the  din  of  the  world, 
after  the  fight  and  stress  were  over  ?  Or  rather,  were  not  such 
ambitions  quite  unthought  of  ?  Was  it  not  enough  for  them 
to  have  this  still,  beautiful  morning,  the  sunlight  on  the  warm 
meadows,  the  skies  blue  above  them;  to  have  life,  love,  and 
youth ;  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  glance  of  kindly  eyes,  per- 
haps a  swiftly  snatched  kiss  where  the  hedges  were  tall  ?  For 
indeed  the  place  was  so  still  and  silent  on  this  fair  morning 
that  they  were  suddenly  startled  by  a  peculiar  silken  whistling 
noise  in  the  air,  and  looking  up,  they  found  that  an  equally 
startled  rook  had  just  flown  over  their  heads,  and  was  ah'eady 
half-way  across  the  meadow  behind. 

She  stooped  and  picked  a  germander  speedwell  from  the 
bank,  kissed  it,  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"  It  is  just  the  color  of  your  eyes,  Willie,"  she  said.  "  They 
keep  reminding  me  of  you  when  I  am  out  walking;  and  oh! 
it  is  so  lonely  walking  now !  I  have  to  go  over  all  the  things 
you  ever  said  to  me ;  it  is  my  only  company.  I  say  to  myself, 
'  Here  we  quarrelled' ;  and  again,  '  Here  we  made  it  up' ;  and 
'  There's  the  stile  he  helped  me  over,  and  caught  me  when  I 
jumped  down' ;  and  '  Here's  where  the  anemones  used  to  grow, 
that  he  used  to  put  in  my  hair.'  Then  on  I  go  again ;  thinking 
of  all  the  nice  love-names  you  used  to  call  me ;  and  not  a  hu- 
man being  to  say  a  civil  word  to  one — nothing  but  the  cows 
staring  at  you,  and  the  flowers  all  occupied  with  their  own 
business  of  drinking  in  the  sunlight.  And  of  coui'se  every 
one  else  you  meet  is  sure  to  have  a  companion — " 

"Never  mind,  Kitty,"  said  he.      "You'll  have  plenty  of 


"when  all  the  world  was  young."  79 

society  in  Dublin ;  you  will  have  half  the  young  officers  from 
the  barracks  wanting  to  get  introduced  to  you." 

"  Oh,  indeed !"  she  said.  "  Indeed !  I'd  ask  them  if  they  had 
learned  their  drill  yet ;  and  if  there  wasn't  one  part  of  it  called 
'  Right-about-face.'  But  it  is  very  nice  of  you  not  to  object  to 
my  going  to  Dublin,  Willie.  You  see,  it  will  be  a  six  weeks' 
engagement,  and  for  me  a  six  weeks'  holiday  as  well ;  and  no 
silk  dresses,  or  gloves,  or  music,  or  bouquets  to  buy.  And  they 
say  the  picture  of  Killarney  is  quite  lovely ;  and  just  imagine 
how  effective  it  will  be — the  lights  in  the  theatre  all  down; 
then  the  moonlight  begins  to  show  on  Muckross  Abbey,  per- 
haps, or  perhaps  it's  Innisfallen,  and  all  the  water  begins  to  be 
silver,  and  then  the  orchestra  plays  a  very  slow  accompani- 
ment; and  then — I  am  going  to  begin  very  softly — you  hear 
'  By  Killarney's  lakes  and  fells'  sung  somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance. You  must  imagine  it  to  be  a  voice  in  the  air;  and 
won't  I  do  my  best  with  it  when  it  is  my  boy's  native  country 
that  it  is  all  about !  Ah  me !  there  won't  be  anybody  then  to 
sing  my  praises  in  the  Cork  Chronicle.  It  will  no  longer  be 
reserved  for  an  English  singer  to  reveal  to  the  Irish  people  the 
pathos  of  anything  at  all.  No;  the  only  one  she  ever  cared  to 
sing  for  will  be  far  away,  not  thinking  of  her,  but  having  fine 
dinners  in  his  splendid  rooms  in  London." 

He  burst  out  laughing. 

"  My  splendid  room  in  the  Fulham  Road,  Kitty,  is  furnished 
with  one  table  and  two  chairs,  and  is  otherwise  about  as  bare 
as  a  billiard  ball.  You  don't  get  much  splendor  for  six  shil- 
lings a  week." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  shyly,  "if  you  had  only  staid  in  Ireland,  you 
might  have  had  lodgings  cheaper  than  that." 

"Where  ?"  he  asked. 

"You  might,"  said  she,  very  prettily,  and  with  her  eyes 
cast  down — "you  might  have  'lived  in  my  heart,  and  paid  no 
rent.'" 

However,  not  once  during  this  long,  delicious  ramble  along 
lanes,  and  by  farm-houses,  and  through  woods,  did  Miss  Ro- 
mayne  recur  to  that  first  eager  heart-cry  of  hers  that  he  should 
give  up  his  ambitious  projects  in  London,  and  come  back  to 
Ireland.  For  although  she  could  make  love  very  prettily,  in 
a  shy,  tender,  and  bewitching  fashion,  she  was  nevei'theless  a 


80  SHANDON  BELLS. 

sensible  young  woman,  and  she  perceived  that  whether  slie 
liked  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  or  not,  he  was  affording  her  lover  a 
very  fair  start  in  London  literary  life.  No,  she  would  not  ask 
him  to  sacrifice  those  prospects  merely  to  gratify  sentiment; 
but  seeing  that  he  was  here,  and  seeing  that  merely  to  touch 
the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  to  know  that  he  was  beside  her,  was  the 
greatest  delight  in  the  world  to  her,  her  first  thought  was  how 
he  and  she  could  be  most  together. 

"  When  do  you  go  back,  Willie  ?" 

"  To-morrow  morning." 

' '  To-morrow  morning !"  she  cried,  and  her  face  fell.  ' '  Must 
you  ?" 

"My  darling,  I  must,  without  a  doubt." 

"But  this  is  dreadful,  Willie.  Am  I  only  to  see  you  for 
three  hours — and — and  the  three  hours  nearly  over — " 

Her  eyes  began  to  fill,  and  her  lips  to  tremble. 

' '  What  do  you  mean,  Kitty  ?    The  whole  day  is  before  us — " 

"There's  dinner  at  two,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  turned  aside 
from  him,  ' '  and  there's  church  in  the  afternoon ;  and  then 
Miss  Patience  will  expect  me  to  stay  in  all  the  evening;  and 
how  can  I  see  you  ?  Three  hours — and  it  may  be  years 
again." 

"Oh,  but  that  won't  do  at  all,  Kitty,"  said  he,  cheerfully. 
"I  haven't  come  all  this  way  to  spend  a  day  with  you,  and 
have  half  of  it  cut  off.  Not  a  bit.  I  am  going  to  call  on  Miss 
Patience.  I  am  going  to  apologize  for  any  and  every  offense 
that  she  can  think  of — for  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I've 
done.  She  may  draw  up  a  list  as  long  as  my  arm — or  as  long 
as  her  face,  which  is  longer — and  I'll  write  at  the  foot  of  it : 
^  Peccavi  peccatum  grande,  et  mihi  conscius  multorum  de- 
lictorum^  sed  gratia  Patientice'' — that's  through  the  favor  of 
Miss  Patience,  Kitty — I've  been  acquitted." 

Kitty's  face  rose  again. 

"And  I  think  it  could  be  managed,  Willie,  if  you  wouldn't 
mind  being  a  little  considerate.  I  have  found  out  what  made 
most  of  the  mischief.  You  printed  a  letter  of  hers  in  the  Cork 
Chronicle.'''' 

"  I  know  I  did;  I  thought  she  would  be  pleased." 

"But  she  sent  it  anonymously." 

"I  only  appended  her  initials.     I  recognized  the  handwrit- 


"when  all  the  world  was  young."  81 

ing,  and  it  was  a  sensible  enough  letter.  I  thought  she  would 
be  pleased." 

"But  you  don't  understand,  Willie ;  I  must  tell  you  about 
poor  old  Patience,  though  it  is  absurd.  You  see,  she  takes  a 
great  interest  in  public  afPau's,  and  thinks  she  is  in  a  good  po- 
sition for  being  an  impartial  adviser — not  influenced  by  inter- 
ested motives,  you  understand,  Willie— and  so  she  writes  let- 
ters to  the  newspaper  editors  throughout  the  country,  and  to 
the  cabinet  ministers,  and  advises  them.  She  writes  and  ap- 
proves of  what  they've  said,  or  she  suggests  things  they  should 
do,  and  of  course  sometimes  they  do  do  that,  and  then  poor 
old  Patience  is  very  delightful  to  live  with,  for  she'll  let  you 
do  anything  on  these  days.  But  then  she  believes  that  if  her 
name  was  known,  all  her  influence  in  public  affairs  would 
fade  away,  for  the  public  men  would  think  she  was  wanting 
something  from  them,  and  so  she  writes  anonymously.  Then 
you  must  needs  go  and  discover  her  secret,  and  put  her  initials 
to  the  letter." 

' '  There  was  no  harm  in  the  letter,  Kitty.  It  only  said  that 
on  some  particular  question — I  forget  what — we  were  the  only 
paper  in  the  country  that  spoke  the  truth,  and  every  editor 
likes  to  print  letters  like  that. " 

"Then  the  very  next  day,  I  believe,  you  must  needs  go  and 
say  something  about  editors  being  plagued  with  correspond- 
ence, and  that  she  took  to  herself — " 

"I  wasn't  even  thinking  of  her,  Kitty;  though  anything 
more  diabolical  than  a  woman  who  spends  her  life  in  tortur- 
ing editors  and  cabinet  ministers  with  continual  wi'itmg  to 
them — " 

"Whish — sh — sh!  Many  a  pleasant  evening  you  owe  to 
Miss  Patience,  young  man.  So  now  I'm  going  in  to  dinner. 
No,  you  mustn't  think  of  it;  I  will  manage  it;  men  always 
bungle  these  things ;  and  if  you  go  and  get  your  dinner,  and 
be  back  about  here  at  three,  I  will  send  you  a  message  some- 
how as  to  how  the  weather  looks.  Oh,  where  are  you  staying, 
Willie  ?" 

"At  the  Imperial." 

"Sure,  can't  ye  say  the  Impayrial?"  remonstrated  Miss  Eo- 

mayne.      "Very  well,  then,  I  will  try  to  send  a  line  to  you 

there." 

4vv 


82  SHANDON   BELLS. 

"Is  it  much  use?"  he  asked.  "I  am  coming  to  spend  the 
afternoon  with  you,  Kitty,  whatever  kind  of  weather  there  is." 

' '  Go  away  now,  you  headstrong  boy !  You  may  have  com- 
mand over  Don  Fierna  and  his  pixies  in  that  dreadful  glen,  but 
you  don't  know  how  to  manage  a  woman's  temper.  Good-by, 
Willie — oh,  dear  me,  how  I  shall  hate  the  sermon !" 

"Good-by,  Kitty.  Tell  Miss  Patience  that  I  know  quite 
w^ell  whose  advice  it  was  that  induced  the  American  govern- 
ment to  give  up  Mason  and  Slidell." 

He  went  down  to  the  Imperial,  and  got  something  to  eat. 
He  was  not  much  distressed  about  what  was  going  to  happen ; 
he  would  see  Kitty  that  afternoon,  and  that  evening  too,  de- 
spite all  the  female  diplomatists  in  Ireland  or  out  of  it.  But 
in  about  half  an  hour  any  little  anxiety  w^as  dispelled  by  the 
following  note,  hastily  scribbled  in  pencil,  which  was  brought 
him  by  a  shock-headed  boy. 

"My  Dearest, — I  have  molly fied  [sic]  Miss  Patience.  She 
has  said  you  might  come  to  supper  at  eight.  If  you  are  about 
the  front  of  St.  Anne's  when  afternoon  church  comes  out,  I 
will  go  for  a  little  walk  with  you ;  but  let  me  leave  Miss  Pa- 
tience first;  she  would  not  like  an  explanation  in  the  street. 
Shall  you  be  in  the  church  ?  I  will  look  out  for  you.  Do,  do 
be  civil  to  her  to-night. 

"Your  much  obliged, 

"Catherine  the  Incomprehensible." 

So  they  had  another  long  and  delightful  w^alk  in  the  sunny 
afternoon,  though  this  time  they  remained  nearer  the  city,  vis- 
iting various  spots  that  were  hallowed  by  their  own  wonderful 
experiences,  and  on  one  occasion  standing  mute  to  hear  the 
distant  chiming  of  Shan  don  bells.  Kitty  was  most  interested 
in  listening  to  the  smallest  details  about  his  life  in  London; 
but  nothing  that  he  could  urge  could  overcome  her  dislike — or 
jealousy,  or  whatever  it  was^of  Hilton  Clarke.  This  was  the 
more  unreasonable  tliat  she  had  never  spoken  a  word  to  him, 
and  had  only  seen  hiin  once  or  twice  in  front  of  the  inn  at 
Inisheen.  Even  about  his  appearance,  which  to  ordinary  eyes 
seemed  handsome  and  distinguished,  nothing  would  please 
her.     He  looked  finical.     He  looked  supercilious.     He  stared 


"when  all  the  world  was  young."  S3 

impertinently.  Wasn't  his  high-priest  his  tailor?  And  so 
forth. 

"But  you  shouldn't  say  that,"  Master  Willie  remonstrated. 
"He  never  said  anything-  against  you.  No;  he  was  quite 
complimentary.  He  called  you  an  epichoriambic  trimeter 
acatalectic." 

"  I'll  take  that  with  a  little  water,  please;  it's  rather  strong," 
she  said,  saucily. 

"  I  wish  you'd  give  over  your  concert-room  slang,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  slang!"  she  said.  "Slang!  and  what  was  that  you 
said,  then  ?     Wasii't  that  slang,  or  worse  ?" 

' '  It's  the  description  of  a  verse  in  Horace—  a  verse  that  is  just 
as  musical  and  graceful  as  you  yourself,  Kitty,  when  you  like 
to  behave  yourself,  which  isn't  often.  And  if  you  had  any 
gratitude  in  your  miserable  little  soul — " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said,  snatching  her  hand  away  from 
his  arm.  ' '  Mr.  Impertinence,  that's  the  way  to  your  hotel. 
I'm  going  home." 

But  Kitty's  wrath  was  usually  evanescent;  you  had  but  to 
take  her  hand  and  she  surrendered;  and  so  it  was  that  they 
were  very  soon  climbing  the  steep  little  hill  together,  with 
much  cheerfulness,  in  the  gathering  dusk,  the  while  Kitty  was 
lecturing  her  companion  on  the  wisdom  of  consideration,  and 
the  advantages  of  politeness,  and  also  hinting  that,  if  he  could 
but  introduce  the  names  of  one  or  two  distinguished  political 
persons  into  his  talk  that  evening,  no  harm  would  be  done. 
And  as  it  turned  out,  Miss  Patience,  who  was  a  thin,  tall  lady, 
with  a  somewhat  dark  face  and  severe  gray  eyes  that  made 
her  look  like  a  hawk,  proved  exceedingly  placable.  She  avoid- 
ed all  reference  to  the  quarrel.  She  hoped  he  was  succeeding 
in  London.  Then  she  lit  two  candles  and  put  them  on  the 
table  of  the  little  parlor,  and  drew  down  the  window-blind,  and 
rang  the  bell  for  supper. 

Master  Willie  returned  her  kind  treatment  of  him  with  lib- 
eral interest.  For  when  the  little  maid-servant  had  come  in 
to  lay  the  cloth,  and  when  she  had  placed  thereon  the  cold 
beef,  and  salad,  and  cheese,  and  bottled  stout,  and  when  Miss 
Romayne  had,  in  honor  of  her  guest,  lit  two  more  candles  and 
put  them  on  the  chimney-piece,  then  they  all  sat  down  to  the 
modest  banquet,  and  Fitzgerald  pi'oceeded  to  inform  Miss  Pa- 


84  SHANDON   BELLS. 

tience  as  to  what  was  being  thought  in  Loudon  concerning 
some  topics  of  Imperial  interest.  And  he  listened  with  pro- 
found attention  to  her  views  on  these  wide  subjects ;  although, 
it  is  true,  she  spoke  with  much  caution,  and  even  mystery,  as 
though  she  were  afraid  of  revealing  secrets.  She  was  anxious, 
above  all,  to  know  whether  the  public  approved  the  line  the 
Times  was  taking  with  regard  to  the  government;  and  also 
what  sort  of  person  the  editor  of  the  Times  was.  Master  Wil- 
lie replied  that  he  had  met  one  or  two  highly  distinguished  lit- 
erary people  in  London,  but  not  the  editor  of  the  Times,  who 
was  no  doubt,  on  account  of  his  position  and  duties,  one  not 
easily  appi'oachable. 

"  There  again  Sir  Rowland  Hill  comes  in!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Patience,  triumphantly. 

Fitzgerald  looked  puzzled. 

"  Think  of  how  we  are  indebted  to  him,"  she  continued,  for- 
getting for  the  moment  her  mysterious  manner,  "for  the  dif- 
fusion of  information,  and  for  breaking  down  conventional 
barriers !  Nowadays  nobody  has  to  bribe  lacqueys  to  get  to 
the  great  man's  chamber.  The  penny-post  has  done  away 
with  that.  That  is  the  messenger  who  can  not  be  denied. 
The  humblest  in  the  land  can  reach  even  to  the  throne." 

Gracious  heavens,  thought  Master  Willie,  has  the  woman 
been  writing  to  the  Queen  ?  But  all  the  same  he  agreed  with 
her ;  the  penny-post  was  a  noble  institution ;  and  if  she  re- 
ferred to  the  editor  of  the  Times,  no  doubt  he  was  approach- 
able that  way.  But  Miss  Patience,  fixing  her  severe  eyes  on 
him,  instantly  disclaimed  any  such  allusion.  No ;  she  declared 
she  was  merely  thinking  of  the  sj'stem,  and  of  its  wonderful 
advantages  of  communication  between  humble  people  and  the 
great.  Then  she  grew  mysterious  again ;  and  began  to  put 
dark  questions  to  him  about  the  probable  effect  of  a  certain 
royal  marriage  then  being  talked  of,  and  whether  it  was  not 
high  time  that  the  voice  of  the  people  should  be  heard. 

But  the  evening  was  not  entirely  given  uj)  to  politics ;  for 
Miss  Patience,  with  the  kindest  consideration,  and  under  the 
pretext  of  going  to  search  for  some  papers  in  her  own  room, 
disappeared,  and  remained  absent ;  and  Kitty  went  to  the  little 
cottage  piano;  and  her  companion  was  not  a  great  way  off. 
Miss  Romayne,  if  not  a  highly  finished  musician,  was  at  least 


"when  all  the  world  was  young."  85 

a  sympathetic  player ;  and  well  she  knew  the  airs  which  would 
awaken  the  tenderest  associations  in  her  lover's  heart.  They 
were  those  that  he  had  listened  to  when  he  and  she  were 
idling  away  the  glad  hours  along  country  lanes,  or  as  they 
came  home  through  Inisheen  in  the  evening,  thinking  of  all 
the  things  that  life  had  in  store  for  them  together, 

"And  so  the  Irish  people,"  she  said,  letting  her  fingers 
touch  the  keys  very  gently,  ' '  were  not  aware  of  the  pathos  of 
'  The  Bells  of  Shandon'  until  I  revealed  it  to  them  ?" 

"I  wasn't,"  said  he,  "  and  as  I  was  the  sub-editor  of  the  Cork 
Chronicle,  hadn't  I  the  right  to  speak  in  the  name  of  the  Irish 
people  ?" 

"I  wonder  who  fu'st  began  to  make  words  for  these  old 
tunes  ?  I  suppose  the  tunes  were  in  existence  ages  ago.  Oh, 
that  wasn't  much  of  a  discovery,  Master  Willie;  because  ev- 
erybody sees  how  the  air  can  be  made  pathetic  if  you  take 
pains  with  it ;  but  what  I  am  certain  of  is  that  another  bell 
song,  '  The  Bells  of  Aberdovey, '  was  originally  not  a  senti- 
mental thing  at  all,  but  a  splendid  battle  march  of  the  old 
Britons.  If  this  wasn't  Sunday  evening,  and  if  I  wasn't  afraid 
of  frightening  the  neighboi'S,  I  could  let  you  hear  something 
with  '  The  Bells  of  Aberdovey. '  Now  there  is  a  task  for  you : 
wi'ite  a  war  song  for  that  splendid  march — a  war  song  with  a 
tramp  in  it  and  thunder !" 

"  Play  '  Farewell,  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour,'  Kit- 
ty," said  he,  gently.  "You  remember  you  sung  it  in  the  boat 
coming  back  to  Inisheen  ?" 

' '  Do  I  remember  ?  Am  I  ever  likely  to  forget  that  fearful 
night,"  said  she,  "when  I  signed  my  soul  away  to  witches  in 
the  moonlight?" 

But  she  played  the  air,  nevertheless,  very  exquisitely  and 
softly.  And  she  played  many  more,  wandering  from  one  to 
the  other,  while  he  listened  in  silence  and  dreamed  over  again 
the  mornings,  and  the  clear  days,  and  the  silent  twilights  they 
had  spent  so  happily  together.  And  well  she  knew — for  she 
also  had  a  tender  memory — that  however  familiar  these  airs 
might  be  to  others,  there  was  no  commonplaceness  about  them 
for  him.  She  played  one  and  then  another,  but  it  seemed  as 
if  they  were  all  speaking  of  the  sea,  and  of  Inisheen,  and  of 
glad  days  gone  by.     These  two  w^ere  together  so  close  now, 


86  SHANDON  BELLS. 

the  woi'ld  shut  out  and  forgotten.  Why  should  there  be  any 
cruel  gray  dawn,  and  a  wide  gray  sea,  and  then  a  disappear- 
ance into  the  frightful  loneliness  of  London  ? 

But  the  parting  had  to  come,  nevertheless,  out  there  by  the 
little  gate,  under  the  stars.  Kitty  was  crying  a  little  bit. 
What  was  the  use  of  his  coming  over  for  one  day,  only  to  have 
all  the  old  sorrow  to  go  through  again  ?  And  then  he  chid 
her  gently.  Had  it  not  been  a  long,  happy,  idyllic  day — some- 
thing to  look  back  upon,  perhaps,  for  years  ?  Was  it  not 
enough  that  even  now,  under  the  clear  shining  stars,  he  could 
hold  her  warm  little  hands  for  yet  one  other  minute,  and  listen 
to  the  smooth  and  tender  voice  that  he  knew  ?  Perhaps  Kitty 
would  rather  not  have  him  come  back,  then  ? 

"  Oh  yes,  oh  yes,"  the  faltering  voice  said,  and  she  drew  him 
closer  to  her.  "Never  mind  about  the  excuse,  Willie.  To- 
morrow— Wednesday — next  week — any  day,  any  hour,  come 
back  to  me !  That's  all  I  want !  And  it  isn't  so  much ;  and 
other  people  seem  to  have  everything  they  want;  and  they 
are  not  nearly  as  grateful  as  I  should  be.  Ah,  must  you  real- 
lygo?" 

But  the  last  word  took  a  long  while  in  sajnng;  and  even 
after  she  had  given  him  the  last  kiss  and  the  last  blessing,  and 
when  she  had  watched  him  disappear  away  into  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  she  still  stood  by  the  little  gate  there,  trying  in 
vain  to  dry  her  eyes  before  going  into  the  house  again,  and 
■wondering  why  fate  should  be  so  cruel  to  some,  while  others 
were  so  happy. 


IN  LONDON   AGAIN.  87 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN    LONDON    AGAIN. 

At  length  the  fateful  day  arrived  for  tlie  issuing  to  tlie  Brit- 
ish public  of  the  first  number  of  the  new  magazine,  and  Fitz- 
gerald was  glad  to  be  able  to  draw  a  long  breath  of  relief. 
During  these  past  two  or  three  weeks  his  labors  had  been 
indeed  hard.  He  had  been  constituted  a  sort  of  intermediary 
between  the  managerial  and  the  editorial  departments,  every- 
body wanting  to  hold  him  responsible  for  everything. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  the  distressed  manager  would  say,  bring- 
ing him  the  i^roof  of  an  ai'ticle  written  by  the  editor,  "  do  look 
here,  if  you  please.  '  The  vile  decoctions  being  continually 
invented  and  supplied  to  the  public  in  the  shape  of  effervescing 
drinks.'  " 

"Well  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  on  that  particular  occasion.  "Why 
not  ?     Where's  the  harm  ?" 

"We've  fifteen  different  firms,"  cried  the  manager,  almost 
in  despair,  "  advertising  their  effervescing  drinks  and  mineral 
waters." 

"They  must  imagine  sporting  people  to  be  a  thirsty  race," 
said  Fitzgerald,  laughing.  "Very  well,  I'll  get  Mr.  Clarke  to 
take  the  phrase  out,  if  it's  likely  to  hurt  anybody." 

Then  again  Mr.  Scobell  would  call  in  some  morning,  per- 
haps with  a  proof  of  the  same  article  in  his  hand. 

"Look  here,  Fitzgerald — look  here,  my  dear  f'lah.  This 
won't  do  at  all.  You'll  shock  the  public;  I  tell  you  you'll 
shock  the  public.  Look  at  this :  '  That  numerous  and  impor- 
tant section  of  the  British  wealthier  classes  who  have  long 
ago  given  up  the  fear  of  God,  but  who  are  kept  in  pretty  fair 
social  order  by  the  fear  of  gout.'  It  won't  do,  Fitzgerald;  I 
tell  you  it  won't  do.     You  must  ask  Clarke  to  cut  that  out.     I 

told  him  I  wouldn't  have  any  d d  atheistical  Radical  stuff 

in  a  paper  I  was  responsible  for.  I'm  not  going  into  society  as 
the  proprietor  of  a  d d  Radical  and  atheistical  journal." 


88  SHANDON  BELLS. 

But  this  was  a  far  more  serious  matter;  for  if  Hilton  Clarke 
were  to  know  that  Mr.  Scobell  had  been  furnished  with  proofs 
of  the  articles,  or  had  expressed  any  opinion  about  them,  there 
would  be  the  very  mischief  to  pay.  So  Master  Willie  had  to 
assure  the  capitalist  that  the  most  perverse  ingenuity  could 
not  discover  a  trace  of  atheism  or  Radicalism  in  any  one  of 
the  contributions  that  had  been  written  for  the  Household 
Magazine ;  that  Hilton  Clai'ke  would  be  perfectly  astonished 
to  hear  of  any  such  charge  being  brought  against  him ;  but  at 
the  same  time,  if  there  was  a  chance  of  any  stupid  person  be- 
ing offended  by  this  chance  remark  of  Hilton  Clarke's,  no 
doubt  he,  Clarke,  would  at  once  remove  it. 

Then  he  would  go  up  to  the  Albany,  and  make  some  casual 
suggestions  in  as  pleasant  a  way  as  he  could. 

"Well,  you  see,  Fitzgerald,"  Hilton  Clarke  said,  promptly, 
in  answer  to  these  timid  pi'oposals,  ' '  I'm  not  going  to  edit 
the  magazine  in  the  interests  of  the  advertising  department. 
They'll  want  us  to  puff  pianos  next,  and  write  reviews  of  win- 
dow-curtains. And  what  idiot  could  be  offended  by  a  little 
joke  like  that  ?  We  can't  write  down  to  the  microcephalous. 
Where  are  you  going  now  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  have  some  luncheon,  I  think." 

"Ah,"  said  his  chief,  regarding  him,  "I  suj^pose  you  can 
afford  to  do  that  now.  But  it  is  not  wise.  Nothing  so  cer- 
tainly destroys  the  figure  in  time.  I  don't  know  how  many 
years  it  is  now  since  I  gave  it  up:  nothing  between  eleven  and 
eight  is  my  nile.  Oh,  by-the-way,  can  you  help  me  ?  Have 
you  sufficient  ingenuity  to  suggest  the  kind  of  present  one 
might  buy  for  a  lady — well,  how  am  I  to  explain  it  ?  Some- 
thing that  will  not  be  merely  for  vulgar  use — such  as  she 
would  have  to  buy  in  any  case ;  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
sometliing  pretty  that  would  not  attract  too  much  attention  as 
a  gift." 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  define,"  said  the  other,  absently.  "  I  have 
been  puzzling  over  it  myself.  I  daren't  give  her.  a  piece  of 
jewelry,  for  that  would  provoke  questions.  And  of  course  I 
wouldn't  give  her  a  piece  of  furniture,  or  costume,  or  anything 
she  would  buy  in  the  ordinary  coui-sewith  her  husband's  mon- 
ey.    That's  the  difficulty,  and  I  can't  hit  on  the  juste  milieu. 


IN   LONDON  AGAIN.  89 

It  must  be  ornamental  enough  foi-  a  gift,  and  yet  sometliing 
she  might  have  bought  for  herself — " 

"  What  about  a  cigar  case  ?"  said  Master  Willie,  at  a  venture. 

The  other  laughed. 

"Very  well  hit.  You're  not  far  from  the  mark.  But  I 
think  a  cigar  case  would  not  precisely  have  the  effect  of  stav- 
ing oflF  awkward  questions.  Well,  if  you  are  going  to  lunch, 
ta-ta.  Be  prudent,  and  you'll  be  thankful  at  forty  that  you've 
still  got  a  waist." 

Now  Hilton  Clarke  had  a  vein  of  light  facetiousness  in  his 
nature,  and  but  little  satire;  moreover,  he  was  good-natured  in 
a  selfish  and  indolent  sort  of  way.  But  he  never  nearer  reach- 
ed a  sharp  satirical  stroke  than  when  he  advised  this  poor  lad, 
who  was  on  the  verge  of  starvation,  not  to  destroy  his  figure 
by  over  eating  and  drinking.  The  fact  was  that,  despite  the 
most  rigid  economies,  Fitzgerald's  worldly  wealth  was  reduced 
to  a  sum  of  a  few  shillings,  and  that  was  slowly  diminishing. 
The  Irish  trip  had  cost  nearer  three  than  two  pounds.  His 
father  had  written  asking  for  two  pounds  more  to  make  up  the 
money  to  meet  the  bill,  and  he  had  got  it.  Then  on  the  re- 
mainder Fitzgerald  had  continued  to  exist,  if  not  to  live,  dur- 
ing these  past  thi^ee  weeks  and  more.  He  gave  up  his  only 
luxury — that  single  glass  of  ale  with  his  dinner.  The  amount 
of  walking  he  did  was  incredible ;  for  he  had  much  hurrying 
to  and  fro,  and  he  would  not  take  an  omnibus.  The  luncheon 
that  Hilton  Clarke  had  warned  him  against  generally  consisted 
of  a  biscuit,  with  sometimes  an  apple.  And  he  had  given  up 
going  in  to  see  his  artist  friend  John  Ross,  because  he  could 
not  ask  him  in  return  to  a  banquet  of  tinned  meat,  bread,  and 
beer. 

His  salary  having  begun  four  weeks  before,  the  Household 
Magazine  now  owed  him  a  sum  of  £16 ;  and  if  that  money  had 
been  m  the  hands  of  Mr.  Silas  Earp,  or  owing  to  him  by  tlie 
proprietor,  Mr.  Scobell,  he  would  not  have  had  the  slightest 
hesitation  in  making  application  for  it.  But  somehow  or  oth- 
er— he  could  not  himself  strictly  analyze  the  feeling — it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  go  and  ask  for  tlie  money  from  Hilton 
Clarke,  in  whose  hands  he  understood  it  was.  He  was  certain 
that  if  Clarke  knew  he  was  in  want  of  it,  he  would  have  it  at 
once.     No  doubt  it  was  owing  to  mere  carelessness  that  he  had 


90  SHANDON  BELLS. 

not  had  it  already.  And  to  go  and  confess  his  need  of  it: 
would  not  that  be  almost  like  bringing  a  charge  of  want  of 
consideration  against  one  who  had  greatly  befriended  him  ? 
There  may  have  been  a  little  pride  mixed  up  in  this  feeling,  an 
indisposition  to  confess  that,  having  scarcely  a  penny  left  in  the 
world,  he  could  not  write  home  to  his  own  people  for  sup- 
plies. But  the  chief  notion  he  had  was  undoubtedly  that  such 
an  appeal  would  cause  Hilton  Clarke  to  be  vexed  about  his 
own  thoughtlessness ;  and  Fitzgerald  was  a  trifle  sensitive  him- 
self, and  did  not  like  the  thought  of  giving  that  pain  to  any 
one  else.  And  so  he  contentedly  trudged  all  over  London 
(the  printiug-ofiices  were  in  the  City  Road)  instead  of  taking 
omnibuses,  and  he  lived  on  next  to  nothing,  and  gave  up — but 
this  was  hard — hisnightly  chat  with  Ross,  rather  than  make  an 
application  that  would  cause  Hilton  Clarke  to  accuse  himself 
of  inconsiderateness.  This  conduct  may  have  been  Quixotic; 
the  only  sure  tiling  about  it  was  that  it  could  not  go  on  for- 
ever. That  small  stock  of  jealously  guarded  shillings  grew 
fatally  smaller  and  smaller. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  the  Household  Maga- 
zine was  finally  issued,  Hilton  Clarke,  Fitzgerald,  Silas  Earp, 
and  Mr.  Scobell  left  London  by  one  of  the  afternoon  boats  for 
Greenwich,  to  dine  there  at  the  invitation  of  the  last-named. 
It  was  not  merely  the  prospect  of  having  for  once  a  substan- 
tial dinner  that  put  Master  Willie  in  good  spirits.  They  were 
all  in  good  spirits.  So  far  as  could  be  judged,  the  new  venture 
promised  to  be  successful.  The  quantity  of  advertisements 
that  had  been  secured  was  remarkable.  The  "  trade"  had  sub- 
scribed liberally  for  the  first  number;  in  fact,  the  last  thing 
that  had  to  be  done  before  they  went  down  to  Charing  Cross 
was  to  send  word  to  the  City  Road  to  print  a  further  five  hun- 
dred copies.  The  poster,  scarlet  letters  on  a  white  ground, 
was  efTective;  it  was  conspicuous  on  the  hoardings  they  pass- 
ed, and,  needless  to  say,  they  looked  out  for  it.  Mr.  Scobell 
talked  as  if  the  whole  scheme  had  been  his  own,  and  pooh- 
poohed  his  manager's  cautious  reminders  to  the  effect  that  the 
advertisers  were  always  willing  to  patronize  a  first  number, 
and  that  the  sale  could  not  be  even  approximately  gauged 
until  they  began  to  get  back  the  "returns."  The  capitalist 
would  not  hear  of  any  such  qualifications.     He  was  assured 


IN   LONDON  AGAIN.  91 

of  success.  The  richer  section  of  the  public  could  not  fail  to 
see  what  an  invaluable  manual  this  would  make.  Even  with 
a  moderate  sale,  the  margin  of  profit  at  a  shilling  would  be 
large.     And  so  he  paid  for  all  their  tickets  to  Greenwich. 

Fitzgerald  had  not  been  down  the  Thames  before,  and  to 
him  it  was  a  wondei-ful  and  a  beautiful  sight,  the  summer  aft- 
ernoon shining  warm  on  the  masses  of  shipping,  on  the  gray 
tower,  on  the  surging  stream.  And  then  when  they  reached 
Greenwich  and  the  hotel  there,  and  when  he  went  out  on  to 
the  balcony  of  the  little  private  room,  there  was  something  that 
was  moi-e  than  beautiful  in  the  sunset  streaming  along  the 
wide  reach  of  the  river.  There  was  a  touch  of  the  pathetic 
in  it.  That  very  wideness  suggested  the  nearness  of  the  sea. 
And  was  not  the  sea  the  great  bond  of  association  with  those 
who  were  far  away  ?  He  thought  of  Inisheen,  and  that  seem- 
ed sad;  for  now  there  would  be  no  Fairy  Frigate — that  was 
the  fanciful  name  that  Kitty  had  given  to  the  boat  he  and  she 
used  to  go  out  to  row  iii — there  would  be  no  Fairy  Frigate 
gliding  over  the  golden  watex'S,  with  the  blades  of  the  oars 
shining  in  the  sunlight  as  they  dipped  and  rose  again.  Can 
not  you  take  her  a  message,  then,  you  wide  rushing  waters,  and 
you,  great  ships,  floating  down  with  the  dying  day  ?  Alas !  the 
distance  is  too  great;  she  is  so  far  away  she  can  not  hear; 
and  there  is  one  whose  heart  is  so  full  of  the  thought  of  her, 
and  so  burdened  with  the  sadness  of  being  remote  from  her, 
that  he  has  not  much  of  a  mind  for  the  festivities  to  which  he 
is  summoned  within.     A  hand  is  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

"Twenty  pounds  that  I  can  tell  you  what  you  are  thinking 
of!"  says  Hilton  Clarke. 

Master  Willie  starts  up  from  his  reverie. 

"She  looks  like  a  Norwegian,"  he  says,  "the  bark  there 
with  the  green  hull." 

And  yet,  after  all,  when  they  had  sat  down  to  the  very  elab- 
orate feast  prepared  within,  and  when  their  host  was  descanting 
on  the  merits  of  one  or  two  of  the  wines  he  had  ordered,  the 
humor  of  the  situation,  so  far  as  he,  that  is,  Fitzgerald,  was 
concerned,  could  not  escape  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all 
the  dinners  he  had  not  had  for  the  past  month  were  now  being 
offered  him,  when  he  could  make  no  use  of  them.  It  looked 
ridiculous  that  one  who  had  been  living  on  next  to  nothing 


92  SHANDON  BELLS. 

should  find  himself  able — nay,  constrained — to  send  away  dish 
after  dish  only  tasted,  when  tasted  at  all. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself,  "when  I  shall  be  feeling 
myself  very  hollow  about  two  o'clock,  I  shall  be  saying, 
'  What  a  fool  I  was,  then,  not  to  have  had  some  more  of  that 
turbot!'  This  wine,  now.  Twelve  shillings  a  bottle,  I  sup- 
pose. Six  glasses  to  the  bottle,  probably;  two  shillings  a 
glass.  I  drink  it;  and  I  have  drank  what  would  have  kept 
me  in  beer  for  a  week.  There  is  something  wrong  about  the 
constitution  of  the  human  organism.  When  you  can  get 
plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  you  ought  to  be  able  to  lay  in  a  store 
against  future  need.  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  to  me,  if  I  am 
to  be  hungry  again  to-morrow  ?" 

"Well,  now,  gentlemen,"  said  he  of  the  red  face  and  bristly 
yellow-white  whiskers,  as  he  held  up  a  glass  of  wine  between 
him  and  the  light,  and  then  x)ut  it  on  the  table  again,  "I  did 
not  ask  you  to  come  to  Greenwich  to  talk  business ;  but  I  think 
we  are  entitled  to  congratulate  ourselves  all  around — I  do, 
really.  I  say  it's  a  deuced  good-looking  periodical  we've  turned 
out.  I  call  it  a  respectable-lookiug,  a  gentlemanly  sort  of 
looking  magazine.  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it.  I'm  not  ashamed 
to  have  it  lying  in  my  drawmg-room,  and  when  any  one  comes 
in  I'm  not  ashamed  if  they  take  it  up.  What  I  say  is,  give  a 
good  thiug,  and  charge  a  good  price.  I  think  twelve  shillings 
is  too  much  for  this  champagne,  as  I  tell  ye;  but  I  consider  it's 
as  good  a  glass  of  wine  as  any  I've  got  in  my  own  cellar,  and 
so  I  don't  grumble.  I'm  for  having  good  things.  Give  peo- 
ple good  things,  and  they'll  pay.  A  shilling  a  week  is  a  good 
lot;  but  it  looks  respectable  to  have  a  thing  like  that  lying 
about;  it  looks  as  if  you  wanted  a  country  house  or  a  steam- 
yacht,  and  were  looking  out.  My  wife  had  it  lying  in  her 
drawing-room  yesterday  when  Lady  Ipswich  called ;  and  Lady 
Ipswich  said  she'd  order  it  from  her  bookseller  at  once.  Now 
that's  what  I  like ;  I  want  to  have  it  talked  about  in  sassiety. 
And  I  hope,  Clarke,  your  friend  Gifford  will  give  us  a  flaming 
article  about  it.  I'd  have  asked  him  to  come  down  to-day,  but 
I  thought  we'd  better  be  private.  I  suppose  you'll  drop  him  a 
line  ?" 

"Mr.  Gifford,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  with  a  slight  emphasis  on 
the  "Mr.,"  "is  peculiar.     It  would  be  better  to  leave  him  to 


IN  LONDON  AGAIN.  93 

discover  the  extraordinary  merits  of  the  shilling's  worth  for 
liimself.  Oh,  talking-  of  discoveries,  Fitzgerald,"  he  added, 
turning  to  his  neighbor,  ' '  did  you  read  the  review  of  Daphne's 
Shadoiv  r 

Fitzgerald,  with  a  sudden  flush,  admitted  that  he  had;  but 
Hilton  Clarke,  not  perceiving  his  embarrassment,  or  whatever 
it  might  have  been,  laiaghed  lightly. 

"That  was  the  Liberal  Review  all  over.  The  most  portent- 
ous discoveries!  The  well-known  this  and  the  well-known 
that  under  thin  disguises ;  a  wonderful  study  of  contemporary 
life  and  society  in  England — '" 

' '  Then  have  you  read  the  book  ?  Do  you  think  it  is  trump- 
ery ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  eagerly ;  he  was  so  anxious  to  justify 
himself  to  himself. 

"  The  book!"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  with  a  sort  of  good-natured 
scorn.  "To  call  such  a  thing  a  book!  Twopence-half j)enny 
worth  of  persiflage;  the  rest  of  the  coppers  in  cheek;  then 
throw  in  a  few  allusions  to  current  politics;  and  the  British 
public  will  take  your  mere  names  as  types  of  English  char- 
acter. What  Gilford  will  do  about  our  magazine  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say.  He  may  think  it  trivial ;  he  may  regard  it  as  the 
servant  of  Mammon,  and  he  is  not  too  well  affected  towai'd  the 
rich.  But  one  can't  say.  He  may  make  a  discovery  about  it; 
about  the  xjossibility  of  converting  fox-hunters  to  the  study  of 
higher  things — who  knows  ?  And  then  when  he  gets  into  a  tem- 
pest of  conviction,  he  rides  the  whirlwind.  He'd  hang  you  in 
a  minute  to  prove  to  you  the  impolicy  of  capital  punishment." 

Well,  human  nature  is  but  human  nature,  after  all ;  and  it 
is  possible  that  Fitzgerald,  after  that  rejection  of  his  anxiously 
written  article,  may  not  have  been  so  quick  as  he  would  other- 
wise have  been  to  resent  these  scornful  taunts  that  Hilton 
Clarke  occasionally  dii'ected  against  the  Liberal  Revieio  and 
its  editor.  But  none  of  these  affected  Master  Willie's  secret 
consciousness  that,  if  the  two  ways  of  regarding  human  life 
were  offered  him  as  alternatives,  he  would  rather  have  that 
of  the  Liberal  Revieio  than  that  of  the  Weekly  Gazette.  The 
most  desperate  thing  in  the  world  seemed  to  him  to  be  hope- 
lessness. Your  conviction  might  be  wrong,  but  at  least  it  gave 
you  something  to  look  forward  for.  And  at  twenty-three  one 
is  busier  with  the  future  than  the  past. 


94  SHANDON  BELLS. 

The  evening  went  on  pleasantly  enough,  and  coffee  and 
cigars  did  not  tend  to  diminish  that  halo  of  success  which  al- 
ready seemed  to  surround  the  new  magazine.  Indeed,  so  sat- 
isfied was  Mr.  Scobell  with  the  gentlemanlj"  appearance  of  the 
periodical,  and  with  his  own  relations  to  the  enterprise,  that 
he  broadly  hinted  his  intention  of  sharing  any  great  increase 
of  prosperity  with  these  coadjutors  of  his. 

"I  am  not  a  money-grubber,"  said  he,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  to  watch  the  smoke  ascend.  "  I  don't  worship  the  gold- 
en calf.  I  like  to  have  plenty  of  money;  and  I  have  plenty 
of  money — " 

"I  wish  some  more  of  us  could  say  as  much,"  said  Hilton 
Clarke ;  but  the  remark  was  an  unfair  one,  for  Mr.  Scobell  was 
not  really  boasting  of  his  wealth. 

"I  was  going  to  say,"  continued  the  capitalist,  glancing  at 
Clarke  somewhat  reproachfully,  "that  I  have  plenty  of  money 
because  I  am  not  an  extravagant  man.  I  think  when  a  man 
has  a  thorough  well-managed  establishment  in  town,  a  good 
cook  and  a  good  cellar,  a  couple  of  hacks  for  the  Park,  a  ba- 
rouche for  his  wife,  and  then,  don't  you  know,  a  snug  little 
place  in  the  country,  where  he  can  keep  a  good  glass  of  wine 
for  his  friends,  and  give  them  a  day  through  the  turnips,  or  a 
mount  if  they  are  hunting  men,  don't  you  know,  I  say  he 
should  be  content,  and  not  want  to  win  the  Derby,  or  have  the 
biggest  deer  forest  in  Scotland.  I  haven't  gone  into  literature 
to  make  money,  not  I.  What  I  say  is,  if  it  is  a  big  success,  let 
them  shai'e  it  who  made  it — " 

"Then  Fitzgerald  should  have  three-fourths,"  said  Hilton 
Clarke,  with  a  laugh,  "for  he  has  done  three-fourths  of  the 
work." 

"I  don't  say  I  wouldn't  take  a  fair  return  for  my  money," 
said  Mr.  Scobell,  grandly.  "  I  don't  say  that.  But  when  I  go 
into  literature,  it  isn't  to  make  money.  I  want  to  have  my 
name  connected  with  a  thorough  good  thing.  I  don't  want  to 
go  into  my  club  and  hear  men  say,  '  That's  Scobell ;  he's  the 

proprietor  of  a  d d  low  Radical  print.'     I  say  we  should 

stick  up  for  our  own  country.  I  don't  see  any  better.  If 
there's  a  country  where  you'll  find  better  fighting  men,  and 
handsomer  women — ay,  and  horses  too — well,  I  don't  know 
where  it  is.     I  think  we  are  very  Avell  off.     You  can  get  the 


IN  LONDON  AGAIN.  95 

best  of  everything  iu  London,  if  you'll  onlj'  pay  a  fair  price  for 
it.  Look  at  Co  vent  Garden,  now ;  what  is  there  you  can't  get 
there  ?  And  then  you  get  a  lot  of  low  trades-unionists  and 
Radicals  trying  to  stir  up  discontent,  and  setting  class  against 
class,  and  trying  to  put  a  lot  of  stuff  into  the  heads  of  the  farm 
laborers.  What  I  say  is,  let  well  alone.  I  don't  see  any  other 
country  better  governed.  I  don't  see  any  other  country  better 
off.  If  Church  and  State  have  brought  us  where  we  are,  then 
I'm  for  Church  and  State  ;  I  want  none  o'  their  Liberty, 
Equality,  and  Stupidity.     I  say  we're  precious  well  off." 

"You  are,  my  dear  Scobell,  but  I  am  not,"  observed  Hilton 
Clarke,  pleasantly.  ' '  However,  you  need  have  no  fear  of  the 
Household  Magazine  adventuring  on  these  troubled  waters. 
We  will  assume  that  everything  is  for  the  best  in  this  favored 
island;  and  in  the  mean  time  we  had  better  think  of  getting  to 
the  railway  station." 

Here  Mr.  Earp,  who  was  a  large,  bilious-looking  man,  and 
who  had  scarcely  spoken  all  the  evening,  looked  at  his  watch, 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  would  like  to  mention,"  he  said,  slow- 
ly.     "Very  soon  jjeople  will  be  leaving  town." 

"Doubtless,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  whom  he  now  particularly 
addressed. 

' '  And  you  may  be  drawing  attention  to  it  in  an  article — per- 
haps more  than  once,"  the  melancholy-looking  man  continued. 

"Well,  that  is  possible." 

"Well,  Mr.  Clarke,"  said  the  other,  hesitatingly,  "if  it  is  all 
the  same  to  you,  I  would  rather  not  have  any  such  article.  It 
is,  if  I  may  say  so,  imprudent.  All  the  daily  papers  do  it. 
They  have  articles  about  London  being  empty ;  about  the  dead 
season ;  about  everybody  being  abroad.  And  then,  you  see, 
how  can  you  ask  the  advertisers  to  keep  on  paying  money, 
when  you're  telling  them  at  the  same  time  that  everybody  is 
away  ?" 

"Oh,  I  see!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Clarke,  as  he  rose  from  the  ta- 
ble. "It  is  the  advertisers  you  are  thinking  of  ?"  And  then 
he  laughed,  and  put  his  hand  on  Fitzgerald's  shoulder  as  they 
left  the  room  together.  "There,  Fitzgerald,  don't  forget  these 
hints.  Rules  for  the  editing  of  a  newspaper,  they  might  be 
called.  'Uphold  Church  and  State;  and  in  August  don't  re- 
mind advertisers  that  people  have  left  town.'  " 


96  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  We  might  have  them  printed  and  hung  up  in  the  office  for 
the  guidance  of  contributors,"  said  his  companion. 

They  returned  to  town  apparently  very  well  pleased  with 
each  other  and  with  the  prospects  of  the  new  periodical.  But 
just  before  reaching  Charing  Cross  something  occurred  which 
was  calculated  to  give  Fitzgerald  a  still  more  favorable  recol- 
lection of  that  evening. 

"I  suppose  youll  take  a  hansom,  Fitzgerald  ?"  Hilton  Clarke 
asked  of  him,  casually. 

"  No;  I'll  walk,"  was  the  reply. 

"Walk?     ToFulham?" 

"To  the  Fulham  Road,  at  least." 

It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  or  no  this  answer  may  havo 
suggested  to  Hilton  Clarke  some  suspicion  about  Fitzgerald's 
circumstances,  but  at  all  events  he  said,  a  minute  after,  and 
apparently  without  premeditation : 

"Oh,  I  quite  forgot,  Fitzgerald,  that  you've  drawn  nothing 
from  the  treasury  during  these  past  weeks.  That  was  my  for- 
getfulness;  for  lam  i*esponsible  to  you.  Why  didn't  you  re- 
mind me — " 

"It  was  of  no  consequence,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily;  but 
how  glad  he  was  that  Hilton  Clarke  had  not  had  to  be  reminded ! 

"Well,  then,  shall  I  give  you  something  on  account  ?  Oh, 
don't  be  bashful,  man !  This  is  a  business  evening.  I  should 
not  have  been  so  remiss." 

"It  is  of  no  consequence  at  all,"  said  Fitzgerald  again:  it 
was  quite  enough  for  him  that  his  friend  had  I'emembered. 
He  had  had  enough  eating  and  drinking  for  a  time.  He  would 
willingly  go  back  to  dry  biscuits  and  apples. 

"When  I  was  your  age  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  hard  up," 
continued  Hilton  Clarke,  "and  sometimes  I  know  it  now  when 
paymasters  are  neglectful.  So  I'm  not  going  to  incur  that 
charge,  whilst  I  remember.  But  I  find  I've  only  a  sovereign 
or  two.  Scobell,  lend  me  ten  poiinds,  like  a  good  fellow ;  Earp 
can  score  it  up  against  me  at  the  office." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  though  he  seemed  a  little 
surprised  on  hearing  that  Fitzgerald  had  up  to  that  moment 
I'eceived  no  salary. 

The  two  bank-notes  were  handed  to  Clarke,  who  in  turn 
passed  them  on,  and  Fitzgerald,  so  far  from  having  any  hesita- 


IN  LONDON  AGAIN.  97 

tion  about  accepting  them,  was  altogether  deliglited.  He  had 
looked  forward  with  the  utmost  shrinking  to  the  obvious  neces- 
sity, sooner  or  later,  of  having  to  recall  Hilton  Clarke  to  a 
sense  of  his  carelessness.  It  was  now  clear  to  him  that  Mr. 
Clarke  would  so  have  regarded  an  application  from  him — as  a 
reminder  that  he  had  been  culpably  neglectful.  And  now  to 
find  this  deplorable  thing  removed  was  an  inexpressible  relief; 
and  the  first  thought  he  had  was  that  he  would  invest  a  portion 
of  this  sum  in  paying  for  a  ride  on  an  omnibus,  get  home 
quickly,  and  see  if  John  Ross  wei*e  still  awake  and  at  work, 
that  he  might,  as  he  surely  would,  rejoice  in  the  good  fortune 
of  his  nearest  neighbor. 

When  Fitzgerald  reached  the  little  court-yard  in  the  Fulham 
Road,  there  was  no  doubt  possible  about  Ross's  being  at  home, 
whether  he  was  at  work  or  no,  for  loud  and  martial  strains 
were  resounding  through  the  big  empty  studio.  It  was  with 
the  utmost  difficulty  that  Fitzgerald  could  make  himself  heard. 
Then  the  bawling  suddenly  ceased,  and  the  door  was  opened. 

"Come  in,  man,  come  in.  What's  the  need  o'  ceremony? 
What  for  did  ye  wait  to  knock  ?" 

"  I  heard  the  end  of  '  Scots  wha  hae'  by  waiting,"  said  Mas- 
ter Willie,  getting  a  chair  for  himself. 

"Ay,"  said  his  host,  fetching  him  a  canister  of  tobacco. 
"I'm  thinking  King  Edward,  poor  man,  thought  he  was  never 
going  to  hear  the  end  o'  they  Scotch  folk  while  he  was  alive. 
I  dare  say  whenever  he  found  himself  with  nothing  to  do — wi' 
half  an  hour  to  spare,  like — he  would  say  to  his  friends, '  Come 
and  let  us  sit  down  and  curse  Scotland.'  Well,  now,  what 
have  ye  been  about  ?     What  has  come  over  ye  ?" 

"  I  have  been  very  busy ;  but  the  magazine  I  was  telling  you 
about  has  come  out  at  last ;  and  to-night  I  have  just  got  back 
from  a  dinner  at  Greenwich  which  was  meant  to  celebrate  the 
occasion." 

"But  ye're  sober!"  exclaimed  the  other. 

"Why  not?" 

"What's  the  use  o'  going  all  that  way  for  a  dinner,  if  ye 
come  home  sober  ?  Ay,"  said  he,  regarding  him  critically, 
"but  if  they've  sent  ye  back  sober,  they've  put  an  extra  bit  o' 
color  in  your  cheeks.  It's  no  often  one  sees  color  like  that  in 
London.     It's  no  a  London  complexion  at  a' ;  it  reminds  one 

5 


98  SHANDON  BELLS. 

more  o'  a  corn  field  in  summer,  and  a  strapping  young  fellow 
lying  by  the  side  of  a  stook,  wi'  his  face  half  turned  away  f rae 
the  sun.  Man,  I'd  like  to  have  a  try  at  your  head.  You  go 
on  smoking,  and  let  me  hear  all  your  story  since  I  saw  ye  last. 
I'd  just  like  to  have  a  try." 

He  threw  aside  his  pipe,  and  quickly  stuck  on  his  easel  a 
sheet  of  light  brown  board,  and  took  up  his  palette  and  colors. 
And  then  he  began  to  walk  u^i  and  down  a  bit,  ultimately  put- 
ting colors  on  the  palette,  and  studying  Fitzgerald's  head  from 
different  points  of  view. 

"Man,"  he  said,  "  ye've  more  character  about  ye  than  I 
thought.     Ye'll  have  a  fine  head  when  ye  grow  up." 

Fitzgerald  thought  he  had  done  growing,  as  he  was  tliree- 
and-twenty,  and  five  foot  ten.  But  by  this  time  he  was  famil- 
iar with  Ross's  way  of  working,  and  with  the  jerky  observa- 
tions with  which  he  usually  accompanied  that,  and  so  he  did 
not  interrupt.  After  a  while  Ross  suddenly  went  to  a  port- 
folio that  stood  near  the  wall,  and  after  having  rudely  tumbled 
about  a  number  of  sheets,  he  brought  back  a  large  and  dusty 
j)liotograi)h — of  Giorgione's  armed  warrior  in  the  UfBzi. 

"That's  what  your  head  '11  be  in  middle  age." 

"That !     I  don't  see  the  least  likeness,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"  But  I  do.  It's  my  business.  Of  course  you'll  no  be  dark 
like  that,  but  that's  your  nose  and  forehead.  Ay,  and  the 
mouth  too.  But  the  comj)lexion  makes  a  gi'eat  difference; 
and  the  hair — have  ye  been  burning  yourself  in  the  sun  a'  the 
day  ?     Where  got  ye  that  straight  nose  in  Ireland  ?" 

"I  suppose  there  are  as  many  thei*e  as  elsewhere,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, trying  to  steal  a  look  at  the  board  on  the  easel,  but 
failing. 

"  I  dinna  believe  ye,"  said  Ross,  who  was  now  working  very 
eagerly,  with  snatches  of  contemplative  whistling  coming  in 
at  intervals.  "I've  watched  the  shearers  that  come  over  from 
Belfast.  There's  no  one  in  twenty  that  escapes  from  the  gen- 
eral type — the  turned-up  nose  and  long  upper  lip.  Ay,  and 
so  the  wonderful  new  magazine's  out.  Well,  tell  us  all  about 
it,  man ;  ye  need  no  be  feared  about  altering  your  expression ; 
it's  only  the  tan  o'  the  sunlight  I'm  trying  at,  though  whether 
I  can  do  anything — but  there's  no  two  curls  o'  your  hair  the 
same  color,  man!     What  do  ye  mean  by  that?     There's  an 


IN  LONDON  AGAIN.  99 

inconsistency  about  ye  that's  aggravating.  Well,  about  tbe 
magazine  ?" 

So  Fitzgerald  told  him  all  that  had  happened ;  and  dwelt  on 
his  gi*eat  good  fortune  in  having  been  able  to  make  so  early 
a  start  in  London,  thanks  to  one  or  two  kind  friends  ;  and 
said  how  everybody  was  pleased  at  the  prospects  of  this  ven- 
ture. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  broad-shouldered,  red-bearded  little  man, 
as  he  stepped  back  a  yard  or  two  from  the  easel,  and  regarded 
his  handiwork,  "  and  that  may  partly  account  for  the  color,  as 
well  as  the  warm  day  and  the  trip  to  Greenwich.  The  flush  of 
success,  eh  ?  And  I  warrant  there's  a  young  lass  somewhere 
that's  just  as  pleased  as  yoursel'." 

Then  he  suddenly  bawled  out  in  a  prodigious  and  raucous 
voice,  looking  intently  at  his  work  the  while : 

"  And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 
For  auld  lang  syne !" 

However,  this  vocal  outburst  was  not  the  result  of  self-satis- 
faction. 

"  What  put  it  into  my  head,"  he  continued,  in  a  series  of 
inconsecutive  growls,  as  he  stepped  back,  and  then  stepped  for- 
ward, and  then  bit  the  end  of  his  brush,  "to  try  such  a  blaze 
of  flesh-color  ?  It's  the  most  infernal  thing  in  the  world.  I'm 
a  landscape  painter ;  at  least  I  say  I  am ;  I  think  I'll  take  to 
house  fronts  and  door  steps.  The  portrait  painting  I  can  do  is 
a  wee  dabbie  o'  red  and  white  under  an  auld  wife's  cap  if  she's 
coming  along  the  road  about  twa  miles  off. 

"  '  And  we'll  tak  a  rigbt  guid-willie  waught'  " — 

But  there  was  no  joy  left  in  the  jovial  song;  nothing  but 
perplexity  and  irritation. 

"  Don't  bother  about  it  to-night,"  said  Master  Willie.  "Let's 
have  a  quiet  smoke  and  a  chat." 

The  next  thing  he  saw  was  Ross  suddenly  advance  and  with 
one  stroke  drive  his  fist  right  through  the  frail  board,  sending 
the  easel  and  everything  flying  and  sprawling  across  the  room. 
Then,  that  action  having  apparently  assuaged  his  passion,  he 
quietly  took  the  palette  from  the  thumb  of  his  left  hand  and 
laid  it  down. 


100  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  I  am  a  failure,"  he  said,  drawing  along  a  chair  to  the  bare 
wooden  table.  "Nothing  I  try  will  do.  Ye  are  one  o'  the 
lucky  ones ;  only  ye  dinna  ken  the  contentment  there  is  in  a 
glass  o'  good  Scotch  whiskey.  I  do.  But  d'ye  think  I'm  to 
be  cast  down  because  I  canna  pent  ?  No  while  I  can  light  a 
pipe !" 

"But  it's  nonsense  your  talking  like  that!"  exclaimed  Fitz- 
gerald, who  had  been  privileged  to  look  over  these  canvases, 
and  who,  little  as  he  knew  about  painting,  had  been  greatly 
struck  with  the  strangely  vivid  eflPects  he  saw  here  and  there, 
along  with,  as  he  imagined,  an  absolute  want  of  definite  con- 
struction or  technical  skill.  Amid  all  this  confused  chaos  of 
impressions — which  he  was  not  surprised  the  dealers  had  for 
the  most  part  regarded  as  quite  hopeless — he  had  seen  bits  that 
were  to  him  a  sort  of  revelation.  Moreover,  he  had  gone  out 
once  or  twice  into  the  country  with  John  Ross ;  he  had  listened 
to  his  talk ;  had  watched  the  things  he  had  pointed  out ;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  world  had  grown  a  great  deal  more 
interesting  since  this  red-haired  Scotchman  had  taught  him 
how  to  look  at  it. 

"  It  is  nonsense  your  talking  like  that,"  repeated  Fitzgerald. 
"And  very  soon  the  world  will  find  out,  and  will  tell  you, 
whether  you  can  paint  or  not." 

"But  do  I  complain?"  said  the  other,  fetching  over  some 
fresh-water  and  a  tumbler.  "  Do  I  howl  ?  Have  you  seen  me 
lie  down  on  the  floor  and  squeal  ?  Bless  the  laddie,  I've  my 
wits  left.  And  I'm  thinking  that,  now  this  machine  o'  yours 
is  fairly  on  the  rails,  ye'd  better  have  a  day's  holiday  the 
morn ;  and  I'll  take  ye  and  show  ye  as  fine  a  bit  o'  wilderness 
within  five  miles  o'  this  very  place  as  ye'd  want  to  find  in  Can- 
ada.    Will  ye  go  ?" 

"Won't  I  ?"  said  Master  Willie,  who  had  discovered  that  a 
walk  in  the  country  with  this  keen-eyed,  talkative,  dogmatic 
person  was  in  itself  a  sort  of  liberal  education.  But  then  again 
he  added :  "  No,  not  to-morrow.  We  will  put  it  off  for  a  few 
days,  till  I  see  how  this  thing  is  really  going." 

"You  are  as  cautious  as  a  Scotchman,"  said  his  friend,  with 
a  laugh.  "  Well,  here's  to  the  magazine,  and  to  you,  and  to 
all  good  fellows;  and  may  the  black  deil  be  aye  a  long  way 
away  from  us  I" 


IN  STRAITS.  103 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  STRAITS. 

The  high  hopes  that  had  been  raised  by  the  demand  for  the 
first  number  of  the  Household  Magazine  were  very  speedily 
abated.  An  ominously  large  number  of  the  copies  came  back 
unsold  from  the  news-venders.  Worse  than  that,  as  week 
after  week  passed,  the  small  minimum  circulation  on  which, 
after  these  returns,  they  had  calculated,  showed  signs  of  still 
further  shrinking.  In  these  disheartening  circumstances  it 
must  be  said  for  Mr.  Scobell  that  he  played  a  man's  part ;  he 
accused  nobody ;  he  was  not  dismayed ;  nay,  he  ventured  even 
yet  to  hope. 

' '  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day, "  he  would  say.  ' '  A  shillin's  a 
good  lot.  And  if  the  public  won't  buy  it,  at  all  events  we've 
done  our  best.  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it  when  I  see  it  on  a  book- 
stall. I'm  not  ashamed  to  see  it  lying  on  the  table  of  my  club. 
I  say  there's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  about  it,  I  call  it  a  gen- 
tlemanly-looking thing.  We'll  have  to  be  content  with  small 
beginnings.     Mind,  a  shillin's  a  shillin'." 

Hilton  Clarke,  on  the  other  hand,  was  disappointed,  and  m- 
clined  to  be  peevish,  and  openly  laid  the  blame  on  the  manage- 
ment. There  was  no  pushing  of  the  magazine.  They  had  not 
spent  enough  money  in  advertising.  Indeed,  he  very  soon 
showed  that  he  was  hopeless  of  the  whole  afPair;  and  it  was 
only  by  the  exercise  of  much  tact  that  Fitzgerald  kept  him,  as 
far  as  he  could  be  kept,  to  his  duties  as  editor. 

With  Fitzgerald,  however,  he  remained  great  friends ;  and 
it  was  Master  Willie's  privilege  to  listen,  for  many  a  half -hour 
together,  to  his  companion's  ingenious  and  clever  talking,  that 
was  full  of  a  very  curious  and  subtle  penetration  in  literaiy 
matters.  Once  or  twice  it  almost  seemed  to  him  a  pity  that  a 
man  who  could  talk  so  well  should  not  write  a  little  more ; 
and  indeed  on  one  occasion  he  went  the  length  of  hinting  to 
Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  that  the  world  had  a  right  to  expect  from 


104  SHANDON  BELLS. 

him  some  more  definite  work  than  he  had  already  done.  They 
were  walking  in  Hyde  Park. 

"You  mean  some  substantive  publication?"  said  he,  as  he 
crumbled  up  some  bread  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  began 
to  throw  it  to  the  ducks  in  the  Serpentine,  this  being  a  favor- 
ite amusement  of  his.  "  I  doubt  whether  the  public  care  much 
about  viewy  books.  They  can  manage  an  essay  now  and  again. 
I  have  thought  of  it,  though.  I  could  bring  together  two  or 
three  things  I  have  written,  under  some  such  title  as  '  Laws 
and  Limitations  of  Art.'  " 

"  Why  not  V  said  Fitzgerald,  eagerly.  Here,  indeed,  would 
be  something  he  could  triumphantly  place  before  Kitty.  No 
longer  would  she  be  able  to  ask  of  his  literary  hero,  "What 
has  he  done?"  "I  am  sure  it  wonld  be  most  interesting,"  he 
continued.  "  I  am  sure  no  one  could  make  such  a  subject 
more  interesting;  and  it  wants  clearness;  there  is  so  much 
confusion  about  it — " 

"But  some  day  or  other — " 

"  That  is  what  you  are  always  saying." 

"Wait  a  bit.  I  say  some  day  or  other  I  mean  to  tackle 
something  with  a  trifle  more  of  human  nature  in  it.  I  might 
begin  it  in  the  Household  Magazine,  only  it  would  be  thrown 
away  on  squires.     Perhaj)s  it  would  not  run  to  a  book." 

"  But  the  subject  ?" 

"The  Private  Meditations  of  Zenobia's  Husband." 

' '  Zenobia's  husband—  ?" 

"I  forget  what  the  gentleman's  name  was;  most  people  do; 
that's  the  point  of  the  situation.  But  you  remember  that  the 
lovely  and  virtuous  Queen  of  Palmyra  had  a  husband ;  and 
he  must  have  had  his  own  little  thoughts  about  things.  I 
suppose  now,"  he  continued,  throwing  away  the  last  of  the 
crumbs,  and  linking  his  arm  in  his  companion's  as  they  set  out 
again — "I  suppose  now  you  think  that  before  writing  such  a 
book  I  ought  to  go  and  qualify  by  marrying  somebody." 

"You  might  do  worse." 

"I  doubt  it.  I  shall  never  marry.  Life  is  only  endurable 
when  you  have  all  round  you  an  atmosphere  of  possibility. 
Then  the  unexpected  may  happen ;  each  new  day  may  bring 
new  relations.  But  when  you  marry,  your  fate  is  fixed ;  life  is 
closed,  the  romance  of  it  vanished — " 


IN  STRAITS.  105 

"But  what  do  you  call  the  romance  of  it?"  said  Fitzgerald, 
bluntly.      "  Going  philandering  after  another  man's  wife  ?" 

"I  perceive,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  Hilton  Clarke,  blandly, 
"that  on  one  occasion  I  must  have  been  indiscreet.  How- 
ever, as  you  don't  even  know  the  name  of  the  lady  of  the 
cigars,  no  great  harm  has  been  done.  Feuerbach,  if  you  re- 
member, maintains  that  a  being  without  attributes  is  non- 
existent. Now  a  person  whose  sole  attribute,  so  far  as  you 
know,  is  that  she  smokes  cigars,  can  only  exist  a  very  little  bit, 
as  far  as  you  are  concerned.  The  Lady  Irniingarde,  now :  she 
wouldn't  allow  even  a  cigarette  to  sully  the  purity  of  her  sweet 
mountain  air." 

"The  Lady  Irmingarde?"  Fitzgerald  repeated,  innocently. 

" I  can  imagine  her.  A  coquettish  nose;  very  blue  eyes ;  a 
little  freckled ;  a  mischievous  laugh ;  and  a  figure  that  would 
go  charmingly  in  a  short  dress  with  a  milking-pail." 

"It  doesn't  take  much  trouble  to  imagine  all  tliat,"  said 
Fitzgerald.      "  You  can  see  it  any  day  in  an  operetta." 

"Well,  you  know,  some  prefer  the  maid  with  the  milking- 
pail,  while  some  prefer  a  woman  of  the  world,  with  wit  and 
courage  and  dexterity,  as  well  as  beauty.  Don't  let  us  quar- 
rel. In  fact,  Fitzgerald,"  he  said,  in  a  franker  way  of  speak- 
ing, but  still  with  that  careless  air,  "I  am  rather  in  a  muddle. 
Who  was  it  who  said,  '  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is'  ?  My 
kingdom,  I  know,  sometimes  gets  very  rebellious — tries  to  push 
me  off  the  throne,  in  fact.  If  it  doesn't  take  care,  I'll  abdicate 
altogether.  And  so,  to  let  matters  settle  down  a  little,  I  am 
going  to  retreat  for  a  while  to  Dover.  I  was  thinking  of  run- 
ning down  this  afternoon — " 

"But  the  article  for  to-morrow?"  exclaimed  his  assistant 
editor. 

' '  Oh,  you  can  get  something  or  other — do,  like  a  good  fel- 
low. Print  one  of  your  'Confessions  of  a  Young  Man.'  I 
think  they  are  excellent.  It  won't  be  throwing  much  away; 
for  you  can  forward  it  to  a  publisher,  and  ask  him  to  judge  of 
the  bulk  by  the  sample.  It  will  look  better  in  type.  You 
won't  mind  sacrificing  one  of  them ;  and  I'll  do  as  much  for 
you  some  other  time." 

This  was  the  last  of  Hilton  Clarke  that  Fitzgerald  saw  for 
many  a  day;  and  after  his  chief's  departure  for  Dover,  he  very 


106  SHANDON   BELLS. 

speedily  found  that  the  whole  work  of  editing  the  magazine 
and  writing  the  literary  section  of  it  had  to  be  home  on  his 
own  shoulders.  Occasionally  a  few  contributions  would  be 
sent  up  from  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel;  but  they  were  slight 
and  unimportant.  Nevertheless  Fitzgerald  would  not  admit 
even  to  himself  that  this  conduct  showed  any  want  of  consid- 
eration on  the  part  of  his  friend  and  hero.  What  if  this 
seclusion  were  to  lead  to  the  pi'od action  of  one  or  other  of 
those  books  that  had  been  vaguely  indicated  ?  Ought  he  not 
to  be  proud  to  have  the  chance  of  lending  a  helping  hand  in 
this  way  ?  Or — for  this  suspicion  would  crop  up  from  time  to 
time — suppose  that  Hilton  Clarke  had  got  into  some  delicate 
entanglement  in  London  from  which  the  only  sure  escape  was 
his  prolonged  absence  from  town  ?  Master  Willie  worked  away 
as  hard  as  he  could,  and  bore  with  equanimity  the  remon- 
strances of  Mr.  Scobell  about  the  absence  of  the  editor,  and 
sacrificed  not  one  only  but  several  of  the  "Confessions  of  a 
Young  Man,"  and  tried  to  give  the  best  account  he  could  of 
his  circumstances  in  his  long  letters  to  Kitty. 

There  was  one  very  serious  consideration,  however,  that 
could  not  be  speciously  glossed  over:  he  was  again  almost 
penniless.  Not  even  in  leaving  London  had  Hilton  Clarke 
made  any  reference  to  money  matters,  though  by  that  time  he 
was  very  considerably  in  Fitzgerald's  debt.  For  all  his  work 
on  the  magazine  the  latter  had  received  nothing  beyond  the 
ten  pounds  Hilton  Clarke  had  handed  over  on  the  journey  back 
from  Greenwich ;  and  that  sum,  welcome  as  it  was,  could  not 
be  expected  to  last  forever,  even  if  Kitty's  birthday  had  not 
intervened,  demanding  a  little  souvenir.  Sovereign  after 
sovereign  went,  despite  the  most  rigid  economy.  Again  and 
again  the  dire  necessity  of  having  to  remind  Hilton  Clarke  of 
his  thoughtlessness  ai'ose  before  his  mind,  and  again  and  again 
he  would  put  that  off  for  a  few  days,  making  sure  that  Clarke 
would  remember  and  write  to  him  of  his  own  accord.  He  had 
himself  to  blame.  It  was  not  a  proper  arrangement.  He 
ought  to  have  insisted  on  being  put  on  some  definite  footing 
at  the  oiBce,  instead  of  being  thus  contracted  out,  as  it  were. 
That  Hilton  Clarke  had  drawn  the  full  sum,  month  by  month, 
he  knew,  for  Mr.  Silas  Earp  had  casually  mentioned  it.  It  was 
beyond  measure  distressing  to  him  to  think  of  his  friend  being 


IN  STRAITS.  107 

thus  cruelly  inconsiderate ;  but  he  held  his  peace,  and  went  on 
with  his  work,  and  hoped  for  the  best. 

One  night  he  was  sitting  alone,  and  perhaps  rather  down- 
hearted, for  he  had  had  no  letter  from  Kitty  these  two  days 
back,  when  he  heard  his  Scotch  friend  ascending  the  stairs 
outside.  John  Ross  had  been  for  some  time  absent,  sketching 
up  the  Thames ;  and  the  solitary  lodging  in  the  Fulham  Road 
had  been  even  more  solitary  since  his  departui"e.  Master  Wil- 
lie was  glad  to  hear  that  brisk  footstep  outside. 

Then  the  sharp-eyed  little  red-haired  man  came  into  the 
room,  and  seemed  to  take  in  the  whole  situation  at  a  glance. 

' '  What's  the  matter  with  ye,  man  ?  Hard  work  ?  The  Lon- 
don air  ?     Are  ye  in  the  dumps  about  some  young  lass  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Fitzgerald,  brightening  up,  "maybe  I  have 
been  working  too  hard.  The  magazine  isn't  a  very  great 
success  so  far,  you  know.  I  have  been  offering  some  things 
in  one  or  two  other  quarters;  but  it's  like  trying  to  squeeze 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle." 

' '  Time  enough,  time  enough, "  said  John  Ross.  ' '  Your  face 
is  no  the  right  color." 

Then  he  glanced  suspiciously  around. 

* '  Where's  your  supper  ?"  he  said,  abruptly. 

Fitzgerald  flushed,  and  said,  hastily: 

"Oh,  supper ?  supper ?     It  isn't  nine  yet,  is  it?" 

' '  It's  nearer  ten.  Now  look  here,  my  lad ;  you  come  down 
the  stairs  with  me,  and  I'll  show  ye  something.  A  fellow  has 
sent  me  a  kippered  salmon  frae  the  Solway,  and  if  ye've  never 
tasted  a  kippered  salmon,  then  ye  dinna  ken  how  bountiful 
Providence  has  been  to  mortals.  Come  away  down,  man,  and 
I'll  brander  ye  a  steak  that  '11  make  your  mouth  water — to  say 
nothing  o'  your  een,  if  ye  happen  to  come  across  a  wee  bit 
lumpo'  pepper." 

He  would  hear  of  no  excuse ;  he  carried  off  Fitzgerald ;  went 
below,  and  lit  the  gas  in  the  big  gaunt  studio;  also  the  stove; 
laid  the  table;  cut  a  couple  of  steaks  from  the  firm,  ruddy- 
brown  fish,  and  put  them  on  the  gridiron ;  fetched  tumblers 
and  bottles;  and  then,  as  he  stood  over  the  gridiron,  and 
turned  the  salmon  steaks  with  a  fork,  he  regaled  his  com- 
panion with  "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  one  line  whistled,  the  next 
sung,  with  occasionally  a  bit  of  a  double  -  shuffle  coming  in. 


108  SHANDON  BELLS. 

It  was  clear  that  he  was  in  very  excellent  spirits,  or  pretended 
to  be. 

Then,  when  he  had  popped  the  frizzling  hot  steaks  on  a  plate, 
and  put  them  on  the  table,  he  drew  in  a  couple  of  chairs. 

"Come  away,  my  boy.  Pass  the  bread.  Fitz,  my  laddie, 
I'm  going  to  ask  ye  an  impertinent  question.  Have  ye  got 
any  money?" 

He  affected  to  be  very  busy  in  cutting  the  loaf,  and  fetching 
a  couple  of  lemons,  and  so  on,  so  that  he  should  not  see  any 
embarrassment  his  companion  might  betray. 

"Not  very  much,"  was  the  answer,  with  a  doubtful  kind  of 
laugh. 

"I  dinna  want  to  borrow.  I  want  ye  to  tell  me  if  you've 
got  any,  that's  all." 

"As  I  say,  I  haven't  very  much." 

' '  Have  ye  got  any  ?"  said  the  other,  pertinaciously,  and  for 
a  moment  fixing  his  keen  eyes  on  him. 

"I've  got  four  shillings,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "It  isn't  what 
you  might  call  a  princely  fortune ;  but  while  I  have  it  I  sha'n't 
starve." 

"Are  ye  so  sure  o'  that?"  said  John  Ross,  pretending  to  be 
much  occupied  with  the  lemon  he  held.  "I'm  thinking  ye 
have  been  starving  yourself.  Now  I'm  flush.  And  it's  so 
seldom  in  my  life  I've  had  ower  much  money,  I'd  just  like  to 
try  the  effect  o'  lending  ye  a  pound  or  two.  Just  think  o'  the 
luck!  Just  tell  me  this  is  anything  but  luck!  There  am  I 
sitting  in  front  o'  the  inn  one  afternoon,  having  a  pipe,  and 
little  else  to  do.  'Landlord,'  says  I,  'get  down  your  sign, 
man,  and  I'll  re-paint  it  for  you.'  Away  the  fat  old  fellow 
goes,  and  fetches  a  ladder,  and  down  comes  the  rickety  old 
board.  Then  soap  and  water,  and  a  rub  ower  with  megilp. 
Man,  I  took  a  fancy  to  the  thing;  the  sodjer's  red  coat  was  fine, 
and  I  put  in  some  trees,  beside  the  inn,  and  a  bit  of  a  glimmer 
o'  sunlight  down  the  road.  Ma  certes,  when  it  was  dry,  and 
hung  up  on  the  iron  rod  again,  it  looked  fine,  I  can  tell  ye ! 
And  that  very  afternoon — just  think  of  the  luck  o't ! — by  comes 
a  gentleman,  and  he  wants  a  drink  o'  meal  and  water  for  his 
horse,  and  he  begins  to  ask  the  landlord  about  the  sign,  and 
what  does  the  fellow  do  but  ask  him  to  go  in  and  look  at  my 
sketches? — me  away  do-^Ti  the  river  at  the  time  in  a  punt. 


IN  STRAITS.  109 

And  then  the  upshot  was  that  he  bought  two  at  £10  apiece; 
that  was  £20 ;  and  if  the  half  o'  that  would  be  of  use  to  you, 
ye're  welcome  to  the  loan  of  it,  and  may  ye  live  until  I  ask  ye 
for  it !" 

Fitzgerald  was  deeply  touched  by  this  kindness  on  the  part 
of  one  who  knew  almost  nothing  about  him.  What,  indeed, 
could  Eoss  know  ?  It  is  true,  the  lad  had  clear  and  honest  eyes, 
that  were  likely  to  win  the  confidence  of  a  stranger ;  but  it  is 
more  probable  that  this  friendly  offer  was  in  great  measure  the 
result  of  that  sort  of  subtle  freemasonry  that  seems  to  exist 
among  those  who  have  a  romantic  affection  for  out-of-door 
sports  and  sights  and  sounds,  and  who  have  had  opportunities 
of  talking  over  these  together. 

"Are  ye  proud?"  said  John  Ross,  sharply. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  said  Fitzgerald,  simply. 
"I — I  think  it  is  tremendously  kind  of  you.  I  would  take  it 
in  a  minute  if  there  was  need — " 

"How  long  do  ye  expect  to  live  on  four  shillings  ?"  demand- 
ed the  other. 

But  then  Fitzgerald  proceeded  to  explain  how  there  was  a 
very  considerable  sum  of  money  owing  to  him,  and  how  from 
day  to  day  he  had  been  expecting  it,  or  part  of  it. 

"Bless  me,  laddie,  ye  seem  to  be  clean  daft!"  Ross  cried. 
"To  go  starving  yourself  deliberately,  out  o'  sensitiveness  for 
another  man's  feelings !  Let  him  be  as  sensitive  about  you,  to 
begin  with !  Nonsense,  nonsense,  man ;  get  hold  o'  the  money 
at  once !  I  would  make  a  hundred  and  fifty  applications  for  it 
before  I'd  let  both  soul  and  body  get  down  into  my  boots. 
The  picture  ye  were  when  I  went  up  to  your  room  a  while 
since !     A  snuff  for  his  fine  feelings !" 

"  Oh,  but  you  don't  know  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be  to  this 
Hilton  Clarke,"  contended  Fitzgerald,  cheerfully.  "Mind 
you,  I've  just  been  finding  out  for  myself  how  difficult  it  is  to 
get  an  entrance  into  London  literature.  And  you  see  through 
him  I  got  employment  right  at  the  beginning — " 

"What  on  earth  is  the  use  of  employment  that  ye're  no  paid 
for?" 

"But  the  money  is  there.     I  can  have  it  for  the  asking." 

"In  God's  name  ask  for  it,  then!"  said  his  emphatic  com- 
panion.    "  I  dinna  want  to  have  to  attend  a  funeral.     A  nice) 


110  SHANDON  BELLS. 

thing  it  would  be  for  me  to  ken  ye  were  just  over  my  head, 
lying  in  a  wooden  box.  No  more  kippered  salmon  for  ye 
then.  No  more  ale  for  ye — it  is  pretty  clear,  isn't  it?  No 
more  long  letters  from  a  young  lass  somewhere.  It's  no  that 
that's  putting  ye  out  ?"  he  added,  with  another  sharp  glance. 

"No,  no;  there's  no  trouble  there," said  Fitzgerald,  brightly. 
"Nor,  indeed,  anywhere.  I  will  hang  on  as  long  as  I  can  with 
my  four  shillings;  then,  if  I  don't  hear  by  that  time,  I  will 
write.  Now  we  will  light  up ;  and  you  will  let  me  see  the 
sketches  you  have  brought  back  from  the  Thames." 

They  lit  their  pipes.  But  before  fetching  the  canvases,  Ross 
stepped  over  to  a  dusky  recess,  and  brought  back  a  brace  of 
wild-duck — both  beautif  ul-plumaged  mallard — and  threw  them 
down. 

"There,"  said  he,  "that's  better  than  sketches.  Take  them 
with  ye,  since  ye're  bent  on  starving  yourself.  Bonnie  birds, 
aren't  they?  That  shows  ye  the  use  o'  having  a  gun  lying 
beside  ye  when  ye're  sketching  in  a  punt." 

"If  you'd  only  bring  some  whiskey  with  you,"  said  Fitzger- 
ald, laughing,  "I  think  I  could  afford  to  ask  you  to  have  some 
dinner  with  me  to-morrow  night." 

"But  I  will,"  responded  his  companion,  seriously.  "Din- 
ner, or  supper,  or  what  ye  like.  And  the  next  night  as  well, 
if  ye're  willin';  I'll  see  ye  have  two  good  meals  before  they 
make  a  corpse  o'  ye ;  and  one  wild-duck  makes  a  good  enough 
dinner,  an  excellent  dinner,  for  two  folks.  Eh,  man,  if  I  had 
had  a  bit  spaniel  wi'  me !  Many's  and  many's  the  time  I  heard 
the  duck  quite  close  by  me  in  the  rushes,  dipping  their  bills 
and  flapping  their  wings.  Then  away  would  go  the  mallard 
with  a  whir  like  a  policeman's  rattle;  and  then  you'd  hear  the 
mother  quack,  quacking  to  the  brood.  Catch  her  leaving  them 
till  she  had  got  them  hidden  somewhere!  The  drake,  I'm 
thinking,  is  like  the  buck  rabbit:  catch  a  buck  rabbit  warning 
anybody,  so  long  as  he  can  show  a  clean  pair  o'  heels  and  a 
white  f ud !  but  the  doe,  when  ye  startle  her,  down  comes  her 
hind-legs  on  the  ground  with  a  whack  ye  can  hear  a  hundred 
yards  off,  and  if  the  young  ones  dinna  take  heed  o'  that,  they 
deserve  what  they're  likely  to  get." 

"Yes — but  the  sketches  ?"  suggested  Fitzgerald. 

His  companion  had  contentedly  sat  down  again. 


IN  STRAITS.  Ill 

"  Oh,  ay.  I  got  some  work  done — I  did  a  good  deal  o'  work. 
Did  ye  ever  see  a  kingfisher  fishing  ?" 

"No;  they're  not  common  with  us  in  the  south  of  Ireland." 

"Man,  I  watched  one  for  near  half  an  hour  last  week,  and 
the  whole  o'  that  time  he  never  stirred  a  feather.  He  was  on 
a  stone,  or  maybe  it  was  a  withered  stump,  under  a  bush  that 
was  hanging  ower  the  watter.  I  was  beginning  to  doubt  but 
that  somebody  had  stuiled  him,  and  put  him  there  to  make  a 
fool  o'  folk,  when,  snap !  down  went  his  head  and  neck,  and  the 
next  second  there  he  was  with  a  small  fi^sh  crosswise  in  his 
beak.  Then  he  twitched  his  head,  or  maybe  he  was  striking 
the  fish  on  the  stump ;  then  there  was  no  fish  visible ;  and  then 
a  kind  o'  streak  o'  blue  flame  went  down  across  the  rushes; 
that  was  the  gentleman  himself  going  off  in  a  flash  o'  glory,  as 
it  were." 

"Did  you  put  him  in  your  sketch  ?"  asked  Fitzgerald,  insid- 
iously. 

' '  It's  an  ungainly  kind  o'  a  beast,  too, "  continued  John  Ross, 
taking  no  heed  of  the  hint.  "Stumpy  in  shape.  And  there 
are  too  many  coloi'S  when  he's  standing  still  like  that.  But 
once  he's  well  on  the  wing  you  see  nothing  but  blue — just  a 
flash  o'  blue  fire,  that's  fine  enough  when  it  crosses  a  long, 
standing  clump  o'  yellow  rushes;  but  then  again  when  it 
crosses  a  dark  bit  o'  shadow  it's  more  than  that;  it  gives  a 
kind  o'  metallic  jerk  that  gets  beyond  color  a'thegither.  I 
used  to  sit  and  watch  for  them.  It  becomes  a  sort  o'  fascina- 
tion ;  it's  like  waiting  to  hear  a  pistol-shot  when  ye  see  a  man 
aiming." 

"I  suppose  you  did  a  little  painting  as  well  while  you  were 
up  the  river  ?"  inquired  Master  Willie,  dexterously. 

"Pent?  Bless  the  laddie,  what  did  I  go  there  for  but  to 
pent  ?  I  pented  a  sign-board  to  begin  wi',  which  was  a  good 
honest  piece  o'  work;  and  I  made  fifteen  sketches  at  least;  and 
I  came  home  £20  richer  than  w^hen  I  went  away,  just  to  find  a 
young  idjut  wearing  himself  away  for  want  o'  the  common 
necessaries  o'  life.  For  that's  what  it  comes  to,  my  callant; 
and  if  ye'll  no  take  the  £10  I  offer  ye,  I'll  no  leave  grup  o'  ye 
until  ye  write  and  get  the  money  that's  your  ain." 

And  indeed  that  was  what  it  did  come  to;  for  so  persistent 
was  the  Scotchman  that  before  he  let  his  companion  go  that 


113  SHANDON  BELLS. 

night  Fitzgerald  had  definitely  promised  that  the  next  day,  if 
no  letter  arrived  for  him  in  the  morning,  he  would  write  to 
Dover,  and  remind  Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  that  even  the  most  will- 
ing hack  must  have  its  handful  of  corn. 


CHAPTER  X. 

NEW    FRIENDS. 

Just  at  this  moment  an  incident  occurred  which  seemed 
slight  enough  in  itself,  hut  which  proved  to  have  somewhat 
far-reaching  consequences.  Among  these  "Confessions  of  a 
Young  Man"  which  Fitzgerald  had  been  forced  to  print  in  the 
Household  Magazine  for  lack  of  more  substantial  material  was 
a  paper  entitled  "On  Murder."  It  was  chiefly  an  essay  on  the 
doubts  of  a  young  sportsman  over  the  killing  of  beautiful  and 
innocent  creatures — his  compunction  on  seeing  them  lying  on 
the  grass  stone-dead  and  besmeared  with  blood,  or,  worse  still, 
ineffectually  fluttering  with  broken  wing  to  try  to  get  away 
from  him  on  his  approach.  Or  suppose  he  has  wounded  one 
of  those  sea-birds  that  are  extraordinarily  tenacious  of  life,  and 
finds  himself  forced  to  murder  in  cold  blood,  and  with  protract- 
ed difiiculty,  this  beautiful,  wild-eyed,  panting  thing?  Who 
could  ever  forget  the  mute  glance  of  a  wounded  roe-deer? 
Or  fail  to  be  struck  with  remorse  at  the  piteous  squeal  of  a 
kicking  and  struggling  hare  ?  These  were  the  moments  of  re- 
flection, of  contemplation,  that  occurred  in  the  eagerness  of 
pursuit ;  they  were  not  pleasant — especially  to  the  sportsman 
who  was  alone.  But  then  again  the  paper  went  on  to  speak  of 
doubts  on  the  other  side — doubts  whether  it  was  not  possible  to 
cultivate  sentiment  to  an  unwholesome  degree.  To  live  by 
the  taking  of  life  was  a  universal  law  of  nature.  Animals  had 
to  be  killed  for  food;  and  if  it  was  objected  that  the  sportsman 
shot  for  amusement  and  not  for  the  procuring  of  food,  one 
might  ask  a  rabbit  which  he  preferred,  to  be  killed  outright  by 
a  charge  of  No.  5  shot,  even  in  the  way  of  amusement,  or  to  be 
snared  by  the  keeper  for  the  market,  strangling  for  a  couple  of 
hours  perhaps  with  the  brass  wire  getting  tighter  and  tighter. 
Then  the  training  and  hardihood  and  skill  and  health  of  the 


NEW  FRIENDS.  113 

highest  of  all  the  animals  had  to  be  considered.  In  short,  the 
whole  essay  was  a  conflict  between  Mr.  W.  Fitzgerald  as  a 
hardy,  eager,  and  practiced  wild-fowl  stalker  and  Mr.  W.  Fitz- 
gerald as  a  literary  person  of  acute,  and  perhaps  even  poetic, 
sympathies. 

It  is  just  possible  that  a  consciousness  of  the  impossibility 
of  reconciling  these  two  people  had  been  borne  in  upon  the 
writer  of  the  article  during  its  progress ;  for  he  wound  up  with 
an  appeal  ad  rem,  that  is  to  say,  a  description  of  a  day's  cliff- 
shooting  in  the  south  of  Ireland.  How,  he  asked,  could  one 
be  expected  to  pause  and  consider  such  questions  at  such  a  time 
in  such  a  place  ?  The  Atlantic  thundering  on  the  rocks  be- 
low; the  steep  cliffs  ablaze  in  the  sunlight;  the  dark  mystery 
of  the  caves ;  then  a  sudden  whir  of  half  a  dozen  pigeons,  the 
quick  snap-shot  right  and  left  (your  feet  the  while  steadying 
you  on  a  ledge  not  fourteen  inches  wide),  and  then  the  scram- 
ble down  to  the  beach  after  the  slain.  The  exhilaration  of 
sky,  and  ocean,  and  buffeting  sea-winds  was  fatal,  he  contend- 
ed, to  metaphysics :  even  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience  was 
lost  in  one's  anxiety  not  to  slij)  on  the  close  crisp  turf,  and  go 
headlong  into  the  seas  below.  And  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 
However  the  conflict  may  have  gone  in  the  previous  portions 
of  the  essay,  it  was  the  jjupil  of  Andy  the  Hopper  that  had  the 
last  word. 

Well,  on  the  day  following  the  publication  of  this  article, 
the  following  note  came  to  the  office : 

"Mrs.  Chetwynd  presents  her  compliments  to  the  editor  of 
the  Household  Magazine,  and  would  be  much  obliged  if  he 
would  kindly  acquaint  her  with  the  name  and  address  of  the 
writer  of  the  papers  entitled  'The  Confessions  of  a  Young 
Man.' 

"Hyde  Park  Gardens,  J/b?i(Za_y  lY^/t." 

Now  Fitzgerald  had  had  enough  experience  of  the  multi- 
tude of  people  who  write  to  newspaper  offices  on  the  slightest 
pretext,  and  he  scarcely  looked  at  this  note  twice.  No  doubt, 
if  he  sent  his  name  and  address,  he  would  receive  in  reply  a 
pamphlet  by  a  member  of  the  Anti-vivisectionist  Society,  or 
an  appeal  for  a  subscription  to  the  Home  for  Lost  Dogs,  or 


114  SHANDON  BELLS. 

some  such  thing.  So  he  merely  sent  a  polite  reply,  in  his 
capacity  as  assistant  editor,  to  the  effect  that  it  was  a  rule  of 
the  office  not  to  furnish  such  information,  and  thought  no 
more  of  the  matter. 

However,  the  next  day  bi'ought  another  note. 

"Dear  Sir, — I  respectfully  apologize  for  my  intrusion,  but 
I  think  if  you  knew  the  circumstances  of  the  case  you  would 
not  refuse  the  request  which  my  aunt  made  to  you  j^esterday. 
She  is  an  old  lady,  who  has  met  with  a  great  sorrow ;  and  she 
has  been  very  much  interested  in  the  series  of  papers  men- 
tioned in  her  note,  as  recalling  to  her  something  of  one  who 
was  dear  to  her.  I  may  say  frankly  that  she  is  very  desirous 
of  seeing  the  gentleman  w^ho  wrote  these  papers,  if  only  to 
thank  him  for  the  pleasure  he  has  given  her;  and  I  am  sure 
he  would  not  grudge  giving  up  a  few  minutes  of  his  time 
some  afteimoon,  if  you  would  have  the  kindness  to  forward 
this  request  to  him.     I  am,  dear  Sir, 

"Your  obedient  servant, 

"Mary  Chetwynd. 

"Hyde  Park  Gardens,  Tuesday.'''' 

Fitzgerald  paid  more  attention  to  this  note,  and  even  re-read 
it  cai'efuUy — with  some  little  admiration  of  the  pretty  hand- 
writing. No  doubt,  also,  in  other  circumstances,  he  would  not 
have  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  respond  to  this  simple,  frank, 
and  kindly  invitation.  But  the  truth  was,  at  this  moment  he 
was  in  no  mood  for  making  new  acquaintances.  Not  a  word 
or  line  had  come  from  Dover,  and  his  four  shillings  had  been 
reduced  to  eighteenpence.  Kitty  was  in  Dublin ;  her  engage- 
ment finished;  her  immediate  prospects  somewhat  uncertain. 
Moreover,  if  it  came  to  that,  his  clothes  were  a  trifle  too  shabby 
for  the  paying  of  afternoon  calls;  and  so,  having  written  a 
formal  note  as  from  the  editor,  informing  Miss  Chetwynd  that 
her  letter  had  been  forwarded  to  the  contributor  referred  to,  he 
folded  up  the  sheet  of  note-paper  and  laid  it  aside,  considering 
the  correspondence  closed. 

Two  days  after,  he  found  among  the  letters  awaiting  him  at 
the  office  one  with  the  welcome  Dover  postmark  on  it.  He 
eagerly  opened  it. 


^  NEW   FRIENDS.  115 

''Dear  Fitzgerald,— Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  I'll  mt^ke  it  all 
right.     Yours  ever,  Hilton  Clarke. 

"P.S. — I  inclose  a  bit  of  copy." 

He  looked  at  that  for  some  time,  not  knowing  what  to  think. 
In  the  midst  of  his  perplexity  Mr.  Scobell  made  his  appearance ; 
and  Mr.  Scobell  was  evidently  in  a  very  bad  temper. 

"I  say,  Fitzgerald,  this  won't  do  at  all,  you  know,"  said  he, 
putting  his  hat  down  and  taking  a  chair.  ' '  I  say  this  won't 
do  at  all.     I've  stood  it  long  enough." 

"What  ?"  said  the  assistant  editor,  calmly. 

"You  know  very  well.  I'm  not  going  to  put  my  money 
into  a  thing  simply  for  the  amusement  of  somebody  else.  I 
say  it  isn't  fair;  I  don't  call  it  gentlemanly.  The  magazine 
is  going  down  every  week ;  I  say  the  circulation  is  goiiig  down  ; 
and  it  never  was  much,  and  it  '11  soon  be  nothing.  And  all 
the  time  I'm  paying  my  money  to  a  gentleman  who  amuses 
himself  at  Dover.  I  won't  stand  it.  It's  false  pretenses.  I 
pay  him;  he's  my  servant;  and  he  should  do  his  work." 

"But  he  writes  there,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "I  have  just  this 
minute  got  an  article  in  MS.  from  him." 

"Oh,  it's  no  use  trying  to  humbug  me — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  not  trying  to  humbug  you,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  with  an  angry  color  in  his  face.  "And  if  you've 
got  any  complaint  to  make  against  Hilton  Clarke,  you  might 
make  it  to  himself.     I'm  not  responsible  for  him." 

"No,  nobody  is  responsible,  and  the  magazine  is  going  to 
the  devil  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Scobell.  "  That's  just  it.  I'm  losing 
money  every  week,  and  nobody  is  responsible." 

Master  Willie  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  precious  little 
of  Mr.  Scobell's  money  had  found  its  way  into  his  pocket ;  but 
he  refrained. 

"  Has  Hilton  Clarke  ever  denied  his  responsibility  ?"  said  he, 
somewhat  warmly.  "  It  is  not  necessary  for  an  editor  always 
to  be  on  the  spot.  If  the  magazine  is  not  succeeding,  it  is  a 
pity;  but  I  suppose  it  was  a  commercial  speculation,  like  any 
other.  I  consider  that  Hilton  Clarke  has  put  very  good  work 
into  it ;  and  his  name  as  editor  was  of  itself  valuable — " 

"Look  here,  Fitzgerald,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  in  a  milder  tone, 
"  I'm  not  complaining  of  you.     You  are  doing  your  work  well 


116  SHANDON  BELLS. 

enough — and  Clarke's  too,  for  the  matter  of  that.  You  may 
stick  uj)  for  him  if  you  like ;  but  what  I  say  is  that  it  isn't  fair 
of  him  to  go  and  neglect  his  business.  I  pay  him.  Confound 
it !  I  pay  him ;  he  takes  my  money,  and  amuses  himself  at  the 
Lord  Warden  Hotel.  If  you  were  getting  his  salary,  I  could 
understand  your  sticking  up  for  him.  And  the  airs  he  gives 
himself !  '  Scobell,  my  dear  fellow.'  But  he  takes  my  money; 
and  I'm  getting  tired  of  it ;  and  that's  the  long  and  the  short 
of  it." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Fitzgerald,  slowly,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
gain  nerve — "I  don't  think,  Mr.  Scobell,  that  if  Mr.  Clai'ke 
knew  you  were  discontented,  he  would  wish  you  to  continue 
the  magazine.  He  would  probably  ask  you  to  give  it  up  at 
once." 

"Discontented!"  exclaimed  Scobell,  with  a  not  unnatural 
indignation.  ' '  Haven't  I  a  right  to  be  discontented  ?  Isn't  it 
losing  me  money  every  week  ?" 

"But  that  possibility  was  before  you  when  you  started  it," 
observed  Fitzgerald,  respectfully. 

"Oh,  I  don't  cai^e  about  supply  and  demand  and  all  that 

d d  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  somewhat  inappropriately. 

"Theories  don't  make  the  loss  of  money  any  the  pleasanter. 
And  I  say  to  myself.  Why  should  I  go  on  losing  money  ?  I 
never  proposed  to  pay  for  keeping  Hilton  Clarke  at  the  Lord 
Warden  Hotel.  That  wasn't  spoken  of  when  I  started  the 
magazine.  What  do  I  gain  by  it  ?  It  isn't  even  known  as  my 
magazine,  losing  as  it  is;  it's  Hilton  Clarke's;  it's  his  name 
that's  connected  with  it  in  everybody's  mouth — that  is,  when 
anybody  speaks  of  it.  But  they  don't.  They  don't  even  cut 
the  edges  of  it  at  my  club.  I  go  into  my  club,  and  I  ask  peo- 
ple about  the  articles  in  it;  they  don't  know  anything  about 
them.  I  have  mentioned  it  when  I  have  gone  into  sassiety; 
no  one  has  heard  of  it.  What  is  it  to  me  ?  What  am  I  pay- 
ing for  ?  Why,  when  I  wrote  a  paragraph  about  a  new  brand 
of  champagne  imported  by  a  particular  friend  of  mine,  I 
couldn't  get  it  printed  in  my  own  magazine !  I  like  that  I  He 
struck  it  out  without  saying  a  word." 

"Oh  no;  I  sti'uck  it  out,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"You !"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  with  an  angry  glare. 

"It  was  agreed  at  the  very  outset  that  there  was  to  be  no 


NEW  FRIENDS.  117 

private  influence  like  that  brought  to  bear,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
respectfully,  but  quite  coolly.  ' '  That  kind  of  thing  is  fatal  to 
a  paper.  A  single  paragraph  that  the  public  Avould  suspect 
would  ruin  it — " 

"  How  far  off  ruin  is  it  now  ?"  said  the  other,  scornfully. 

"Well,"  said  Fitzgerald,  "I  did  what  I  thought  was  right; 
and  I  don't  want  to  shirk  the  responsibility.  I  know  it  is 
what  Hilton  Clarke  would  have  done;  and  I  was  acting  for 
him ;  and  I  had  no  time  to  ask  him  first.  But  if  you  are  dis- 
satisfied with  the  magazine  as  a  whole,"  he  continued,  formal- 
ly, "or  with  my  share  in  it,  the  remedy  is  simple,  as  far  as  I 
am  concerned.  You  may  consider  my  place  vacant  from  this 
minute." 

He  rose.  Scobell  seemed  rather  disconcerted  for  a  second ; 
but  immediately  he  said: 

' '  Sit  down,  Fitzgerald.  Wait  a  moment.  I'm  not  blaming 
you;  you've  done  your  best;  you've  done  all  the  work;  I  wish 
to  goodness  we  had  started  with  you  as  editor,  and  saved  Hilton 
Clarke's  salary." 

"Considering  that  the  idea  of  the  magazine  was  his — "  Fitz- 
gerald tried  to  interpolate;  but  the  proprietor  was  bent  on 
mollifying  him,  and  would  not  be  interrupted. 

"What's  more,  though  I  say  it  to  your  face,  when  I  have 
heard  any  one  in  my  own  circle  speak  of  the  magazine  at  all, 
it  has  been  about  those  papers  of  yours.  Mrs.  Chetwynd  spoke 
to  me  yesterday.  She  said  she  had  written  to  you.  Now 
that's  what  I  like.  I  like  to  be  connected  with  something  that 
is  sj)oken  of  among  a  good  set  of  people.  I  confess  to  a  little 
weakness  that  way ;  I  like  to  be  able  to  say  something  about 
the  magazine,  and  hear  it  approved  by  the  best  people.  And 
I  said  you  would  be  delighted  to  call." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  was  part  of  my  duties,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
somewhat  stiffly. 

"What  ?"  replied  Mr.  Scobell,  with  a  stare. 

"To  go  and  call  on  strangers.  Why  should  I  call  on  Mrs. 
Chetwynd  ?     I  never  heard  of  her." 

' '  God  bless  my  soul !  never  heard  of  the  Chetwynds !"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Scobell.  "There  are  no  better-known  people  in 
London.  The  very  best  people  are  glad  to  know  them.  I  used 
to  meet  Mrs.  Chetwynd  everywhere  m  sassiety ,  until  her  nephew 


118  SHANDON  BELLS. 

died.  Her  husband  you  must  liave  heard  of;  why,  he  was 
deimty-lieutenant  of  my  own  county  before  they  made  him 
Governor  of  Tasmania.  And  she  was  one  of  the  Cork  Barrys ; 
she  was  delighted  to  hear  you  were  a  countryman  of  hers. 
Not  know  the  Chetwynds!  But  you  will  be  charmed  with 
them,  I  assure  you.  I  will  take  you  there  myself  if  you  like." 
Not  only,  however,  did  Fitzgerald  decline  this  magnanimous 
offer,  but  he  even  hinted  that  he  would  much  rather  not  go 
and  call  on  these  strangers.  He  was  not  familiar  with  the 
ways  of  London  life,  he  was  busily  occupied,  and  so  forth. 
Whereupon  Mr.  Scobell,  who  appeared  to  have  promised  Mrs. 
Chetwynd  that  she  should  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  young 
man,  went  on  a  different  tack  altogether,  and  appealed  to  his 
generosity.  It  appeared  that  this  poor  old  lady  had  recently 
lost  her  nephew,  in  whom  her  whole  life  had  been  bound  up. 
She  had  adopted  him  as  her  son ;  she  had  left  him  in  her  will 
everything  belonging  to  her — for  his  sister,  Mary  Chetwynd, 
was  already  amply  provided  for;  she  had  made  over  to  him 
by  deed  of  gift  a  small  property  in  Cork,  on  the  shores  of  Ban- 
try  Bay.  Then  a  luckless  stumble  when  he  was  out  riding  one 
day  in  Windsor  Park  brought  an  end  to  all  the  fair  hopes  of 
which  he  was  the  centime ;  and  since  then  the  old  lady  seemed 
to  do  nothing  but  mourn  his  memorj^,  while  keeping  up  a 
strange  and  keen  interest  in  the  various  pursuits  he  had  fol- 
lowed. She  knew  all  the  hunting  appointments;  she  read  ac- 
counts of  the  new  breech-loaders;  she  took  in  the  sporting 
papers.  And  somehow  or  other  she  had  got  it  into  her  head 
that  these  "Confessions  of  a  Young  Man"  were  just  such  essays 
as  would  have  been  written  by  this  beloved  nephew  of  hers  if 
he  had  turned  his  mind  to  literature;  for  they  were  continual- 
ly touching  on  the  sports  and  pastimes  that  he  enjoyed.  Was 
it  wonderful  that  she  should  wish  to  see  the  writer  ?  Was  it  a 
great  sacrifice  for  him  to  give  up  ten  minutes  of  an  afternoon 
to  please  an  old  woman  who  had  suffered  much,  and  who  was 
near  the  grave  ?  The  upshot  of  Mr.  ScobelFs  representations 
and  entreaties  was  that  Fitzgerald  agreed  to  call  at  the  house 
in  Hyde  Park  Gardens  on  the  following  afternoon. 

But  until  then  ?  Well,  he  had  discovered  that  cocoa-nut 
with  new  bread  was  an  excellent  thing  with  which  to  stave  off 
the  pangs  of  hunger,  and  he  had  a  few  coppers  left,  while  in 


NEW  FRIENDS.  119 

the  evening,  on  getting  down  to  the  Fulham  Road,  he  took  the 
precaution  of  putting  out  the  light  early,  and  slipping  off  to 
bed,  so  that  John  Ross  should  not  think  he  had  come  home. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  this  extreme  privation  produced  de- 
plorable fits  of  sleeplessness;  and  as  the  brain  seems  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  painting  the  gloomiest  possible  pictures  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night,  the  thing  that  haunted  him  chiefly  was  the 
prospect  of  his  having  to  visit  a  pawnbroker's  shop.  He 
thought  of  the  man  looking  at  him ;  he  felt  his  own  self-con- 
sciousness tingling  in  his  face ;  he  wondered  whether  he  should 
be  suspected  of  being  a  thief.  No;  he  could  not  do  that.  He 
could  not  go  into  a  pawnbroker's  shop.  He  would  go  out  into 
the  open  streets  rather,  and  offer  to  sell  his  boots  to  the  first 
passer-by.  Besides  (this  was  the  cheering  thought  that  came 
with  the  first  gray  light  of  the  morning)  he  had  still  some 
pence  left;  and  cocoa-nut  and  bread  was  not  an  expensive 
meal ;  and  who  could  tell  but  that  Hilton  Clarke  had  at  last 
taken  enough  trouble  to  reckon  up  what  was  owing  to  him, 
and  had  already  sent  it  off  ? 

About  four  o'clock  the  next  afternoon,  Mr.  Scobell  called  at 
the  office  and  persuaded  Fitzgerald  to  accompany  him  to  Hyde 
Park  Gardens.  In  the  brougham,  as  they  were  driving  up,  he 
endeavored  to  impress  his  companion  with  a  sense  of  the  ad- 
vantages of  getting  into  good  society.  It  was  so  important 
for  a  young  man.  True,  the  Chetwynds  did  not  entertain  as 
they  had  done  before  the  sad  death  of  the  nephew;  but  good 
people — people  one  ought  to  know — ^went  about  the  house. 
Fitzgerald,  who  rather  felt  himself  in  the  position  of  a  slave 
being  carried  o&  for  exhibition,  listened  in  silence.  He  had 
had  nothing  to  eat  since  bi'eakfast;  perhaps  it  was  that  circum- 
stance that  made  the  prospect  of  being  introduced  to  "good 
people"  a  somewhat  intangible  benefit. 

However,  after  all,  as  it  turned  out,  he  was  glad  he  went, 
for  he  was  quite  delighted  with  this  old  lady,  whom  he  found 
propped  up  in  an  easy -chair  by  the  side  of  the  tall  French  win- 
dow. He  forgot  all  about  Mr.  Scobell's  pompous  patronage  of 
him;  he  ignored  his  presence  altogether,  indeed,  for  he  was  so 
charmed  with  this  little  dainty  white-haired  woman,  who  talk- 
ed so  sweetly,  and  with  a  touch  of  sadness  too,  and  who,  more- 
over, had  just  the  faintest  something  in  her  tone  that  told  liim 


120  SHANDON  BELLS. 

that  she  too  in  her  youth  must  have  heard  the  chimes  of  St. 
Anne's.  Did  he  know  Bantry  ?  she  asked.  Why,  of  course  he 
did.  And  GlengariflF  ?  Certainly.  Bearhaven  ?  He  had  only 
seen  that  in  the  distance.  Perhaps  he  had  never  heard  of  Boat 
of  Garry  ? 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  a  little  as  she  mentioned  this  last 
place ;  and  as  Fitzgerald  was  replying  that  he  had  not  heard  of 
it — that,  indeed,  he  did  not  know  much  of  Bantry  Bay — she 
was  silent  for  a  second  or  so,  and  he  thought  there  was  a  little 
moisture  in  her  eyes,  and  that  her  mouth  was  inclined  T;o  be 
tremulous.  But  that  passed  instantly.  The  pretty  little  old 
lady  grew  quite  cheerful  again ;  she  said  she  could  see  in  his 
writing  that  he  was  what  the  Bantry  people  called  a  "great 
sporter,"  and  wondered  how  he  could  write  so  much  when  he 
seemed  to  spend  all  his  life  out-of-doors. 

"  That  is  all  over  now,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "  I've  sold  myself 
into  slavery." 

"And  do  you  find  London  a  lonely  place  ?" 

"Yes,  rather." 

"But  you  will  soon  make  plenty  of  friends.  Where  can 
Mary  be,  I  wonder  ?" 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  question,  the  door 
was  opened,  and  a  young  lady  came  into  the  room  and  went 
up  and  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Scobell. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  the  old  lady,  "let  me  introduce  you 
to  my  niece." 

As  he  rose  he  found  before  him  a  tall  young  woman,  who 
had  exceedingly  shrewd  and  clear  and  yet  merry  eyes,  a  fine 
face,  handsome  rather  than  pretty,  and  with  a  good  deal  of 
decision  in  it.  Altogether  the  first  impression  produced  on 
him  by  this  young  lady  was  not  entirely  sympathetic.  He 
liked  gentleness  in  women.  Tliis  young  person  looked  as  if 
she  could  take  very  good  care  of  herself.  However,  this  first 
impression  was  modified  when  she  spoke.  She  had  a  soft  and 
musical  voice,  beautifully  modulated;  and  she  talked  with  a 
bright  cheerfulness  and  frankness  that  was  pleasant  to  hear. 
For  one  thing,  he  thought  it  strange  that  her  dress,  -which  was 
scrupulously  plain  and  neat,  should  not  be  black,  seeing  that 
it  was  for  her  brother  that  Mrs.  Chetwynd  appeared  to  be  still 
in  mourning. 


NEW  FRIENDS.  121 

"I  suppose  auntie  lias  apologized  to  you,  Mr.  Fitzgerald," 
said  she,  "aud  I  ought  to,  also.  You  must  have  thought  me 
terribly  intrusive ;  but  I  think  our  friends  have  spoiled  us 
with  their  kindness  of  late ;  and  soon  I  expect  to  find  auntie 
printing  on  her  cards  of  invitation,  '  Mrs.  Chetwynd  commands 
the  attendance  of  So-and-so  at  five-o'clock  tea  on  Tuesday 
next.'  Really  they  are  too  kind ;  and  but  for  that  I  don't  know 
what  my  aunt  would  do,  because  I  have  to  be  so  much  out  of 
the  house  at  present." 

"How  you  find  time  for  all  you  have  to  do,  Mary,  I  can't 
make  out,"  said  the  pleasant  old  lady.  "You  see,  Mr.  Fitz- 
gerald, I  get  blinder  aud  blinder  every  day,  and  Mary  has  to 
be  my  ej'es  for  me.  But  this  is  the  worst  of  it,  that  I  am  a 
silly  old  woman,  and  like  to  have  read  to  me  nice  things. 
Mary  is  of  the  younger  generation,  and  cares  for  nothing  but 
science,  and  education,  and  teaching  people  how  many  miles 
it  is  to  the  sun,  as  if  there  was  any  chance  of  their  getting 
there.  It  is  really  too  hard  on  her;  and  I  can  scarcely  read  at 
all  now ;  and  the  way  she  sacrifices  her  time — " 

* '  It  isn't  my  time  that  is  to  be  considered  at  all,  Mr.  Sco- 
bell,"  said  the  young  lady,  brightly,  "but  you  have  no  idea 
what  my  aunt  will  insist  on  my  reading  to  her.  Pretty  stories, 
and  poems  of  the  afi'ections.  I  do  believe  nothing  would 
please  her  so  much  as  a  whole  column  of  the  sentimental 
verses — breaking  hearts  and  the  rest  of  it — that  the  local  poets 
send  to  the  country  newspapers." 

' '  But  aren't  these  interesting  enough  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  per- 
haps conscious  that  lie  himself  had  appeared  frequently  in  that 
quarter. 

"  They  are  a  little  monotonous,  are  they  not  ?"  said  the  young 
lady  of  the  clear  eyes,  regarding  him  with  something  like  scru- 
tiny. "A  little  too  much  of  love  and  dove,  and  posies  and 
roses  ?" 

"At  all  eventi,  they  are  human  nature,"  said  he,  with  some 
slight  flush  in  his  face.  "  If  they  are  not  merely  literary  im- 
itations— if  they  are  the  real  expression  of  the  hopes,  or  fan- 
cies, or  feelings  of  the  writers,  I  can  not  imagine  anything 
more  interesting.  It  is  a  human  life  laid  bare ;  and  that  to  me 
is  more  interesting  than  a  frog's  foot,  or  the  question  whether 

there  is  bismuth  in  the  moon." 

6 


122  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

She  regarded  liim  for  a  moment  curiously.     Then  she  rose. 

"You  will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Scobell;  I  have  to  get  to  White- 
chapel  by  half  past  five.     Good-by,  auntie  dear!" 

She  kissed  her  aunt;  she  bowed  to  Fitzgerald,  and  left  the 
room.  Fitzgex'ald,  without  knowing  why,  experienced  a  sense 
of  relief. 

How  pretty  this  dear  little  old  lady  looked,  sitting  in  state 
there,  with  the  warm  afternoon  light  lending  a  faint  color  to 
the  somewhat  worn  and  sad  face !  Fitzgerald  thought  he  had 
never  seen  such  silvery  hair.  And  she  seemed  pleased  to  have 
visitors;  she  prattled  away  about  the  things  of  the  hovir,  and 
what  this  or  that  distinguished  joerson  was  doing;  and  all 
through,  by  a  chance  remark  here  or  there,  she  would  remind 
Fitzgerald  that  she  was  his  countrywoman.  And  when  they 
rose  to  leave,  she  made  a  direct  appeal  to  Master  Willie  to  come 
and  see  her  again  whenever  he  had  an  idle  half-hour ;  for  she 
was  an  inquisitive  old  woman,  she  said ;  and  she  could  not  i*ead ; 
and  she  liked  to  know  what  was  going  on. 

When  they  got  outside,  Fitzgerald's  admiration  broke  forth. 

"Well,  that  is  a  most  delightful  old  lady!"  he  exclaimed. 
"It  is  simply  delightful  to  hear  her  talk.  And  she  seems  to 
have  known  everybody  worth  knowing  for  the  last  sixty 
years." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  in  his  lofty  manner,  as  the  footman 
opened  the  door  of  his  brougham  for  him.  "Yes.  They  are 
a  good  sort  of  people,  the  Chetwynds.  They  are  very  well 
known  in  sassiety.     I  have  a  few  more  calls  to  make.     Ta,  ta." 

So  Fitzgei'ald  set  out  to  walk  home.  He  had  had  some  tea 
and  a  piece  of  cake;  and  that  was  cheering;  in  fact,  it  had 
raised  his  spirits  so  much  that  he  now  resolved  that  if  John 
Ross  were  at  home,  he  would  frankly  ask  him  for  a  share  of 
his  supper  that  evening ;  and  he  knew  pretty  well  that  Ross 
would  be  as  glad  to  give  it  as  he  to  get  it.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, his  supper  that  chiefly  occupied  his  thoughts  as  he  wallf  ed 
down  to  the  Fulham  Road.  More  than  once  he  kept  thinking 
of  Mary  Chetwynd,  and  of  her  manner  toward  him,  and  of 
what  that  could  possibly  be  that  called  her  to  Whitechapel. 


A  DISCLOSURE.  125 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A   DISCLOSURE. 

Quite  clearly,  matters  were  approaching  a  climax.  Not- 
withstanding all  his  shifts  and  devices,  Fitzgerald  was  at 
length  forced  to  accept  a  loan  of  a  few  pounds  from  his  neigh- 
bor below,  and  he  at  the  same  time  sent  an  urgent  note  to  Hil- 
ton Clarke,  representing  how  his  affairs  stood.  Of  course  he 
never  doubted  but  that  that  appeal  would  be  instantly  an- 
swered. 

Days  passed;  there  were  no  tidings  of  any  sort.  Finally 
two  letters  that  had  been  forwarded  to  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel 
were  returned  through  the  Post-office,  with  the  intimation  that 
Mr.  Hilton  Clarke  had  gone  away  and  left  no  address. 

Fitzgerald,  very  much  aghast,  took  these  letters  to  Mr.  Silas 
Earp.  The  heavy,  black-a-vised  manager  regarded  them  in 
his  usually  lugubrious  way,  and  merely  obsei-ved: 

"A  very  good  job  if  we  hear  no  more  about  him.  He  was 
only  drawing  his  salary,  and  doing  no  work." 

"But,"  said  Fitzgerald,  who  was  rather  bewildered — "but 
he  owes  me  my  salary.  I  have  never  had  anything  since  the 
magazine  was  started  except  £10." 

"That's  a  pity,"  said  the  other,  slowly.  "I  always  heard 
he  was  fishy  about  money  matters — and  other  matters  too." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Fitzgerald,  quickly. 
"Of  course  he'll  pay  me.  I  don't  doubt  that.  But  it's  too  bad 
of  him  to  be  so  careless — " 

"  I  expect  he  has  spent  all  the  money  by  this  time.  Wish  I 
had  known:  I'd  have  told  you  not  to  have  Hilton  Clarke  in 
your  debt  to  the  tune  of  twopence.  It's  a  j)ity ;  I  don't  expect 
you'll  ever  see  a  farthing  of  it." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  accuse  him  of  stealing  my 
salary?"  said  Fitzgerald.  But  his  resentment  against  this  im- 
plication was  accompanied  by  a  wild  guess  at  what  his  own  sit- 
uation would  be  if  it  were  true. 


126  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  Oh  no,  I  don't  say  that,"  said  the  manager,  regarding  him. 
"I  wouldn't  call  it  that.  He  wouldn't  look  at  it  in  that  light. 
But  you  ought  to  know  Hilton  Clarke  better  than  I  do.  I  only 
know  of  him  by  report;  and  I  know  I  wouldn't  lend  him  a 
sovereign  I  couldn't  afford  to  lose. " 

Fitzgerald  went  back  to  his  own  room  and  sat  down.  It 
was  not  only  the  loss  of  the  money— supposing  this  thing  were 
true — that  troubled  him.  He  could  replace  that  loss  in  time. 
But  to  think  that  this  friend  of  his,  who  had  seemed  so  kind 
and  considerate,  who  had  such  delicate  perceptions  and  sym- 
pathies in  literary  matters,  could  act  like  a  common  vulgar 
scoundrel,  and  that  in  a  peculiarly  callous  fashion — this  it  was 
that  crushed  him.  But  only  for  a  few  seconds.  He  refused 
to  believe  such  a  thing.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself  for  hav- 
ing deemed  it  possible.  He  went  back  to  Mr.  Silas  Earp  and 
told  him  that  he  need  not  mention  to  any  one  the  fact  of  Hil- 
ton Clarke's  being  ijecuniarily  indebted  to  him,  Fitzgerald,  for 
of  course  the  matter  would  be  put  straight.  The  lugubrious 
manager  regarded  him  as  if  with  a  little  sad  curiosity,  and 
only  said,  "Very  well." 

The  next  few  days  were  days  of  deej)  susjiense  to  Fitzger- 
ald, for  he  knew  not  what  to  think  of  this  pei'sistent  silence. 
When  the  explanation  came,  it  was  short  and  decisive.  One 
morning  he  went  into  the  office  as  usual.  Mr.  Silas  Earp  met 
him. 

"The  fat's  in  the  fire  now,"  said  the  manager,  calmly. 
"Mr.  Scobell  has  been  here  this  morning.  A  mad  bull  is  a 
fool  to  him." 

"What  is  the  matter,  then  ?" 

"The  story  got  all  over  London  last  night,  he  says.  And 
the  magazine  is  to  be  stopped  this  week.  There  is  the  an- 
nouncement." 

He  handed  the  stupefied  assistant  editor  a  printed  slip  with 
these  words  underlined  in  writing:  "We  have  to  announce  to 
our  readers  this  week  that  the  publication  of  the  Household 
Magazine  ceases  with  the  present  number." 

"But  what  is  it  all  about  ?     What  is  the  story  ?" 

"Well,  I  only  got  bits,  he  was  in  such  a  rage,"  said  the  man- 
ager. "It's  all  about  Lady  Ipswich,  I  believe;  and  when  her 
brother  found  her  at  last,  at  Geneva,  with  Hilton  Clarke,  she 


A  DISCLOSURE.  127 

wouldn't  come  back,  not  a  bit.  She  says  Sir  John  can  take  out 
a  divorce  if  he  likes." 

Fitzgerald  was  staggered,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  And  even  if  the  story  is  ti*ue,"  he  cried,  "  what  has  that  to 
do  with  the  magazine  ?  Why  stop  the  magazine  on  account  of 
it  ?  We  never  advised  our  readers  to  run  away  with  other 
people's  wives;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  magazine." 

"Oh,  but  Mr.  Scobell  wants  to  smash  something  or  some- 
body," the  manager  said,  calmly.  "  His  wife  is  furious ;  Lady 
Ipswich  was  a  friend  of  hers.  And  then  there's  money ;  Mr. 
Scobell  thinks  Hilton  Clarke  only  stai'ted  this  magazine  to  get 
money  out  of  him — " 

"Oh,  that's  nonsense!"  said  Fitzgerald,  warmly.  "That  is 
quite  preposterous.  Hilton  Clarke  may  be  this  or  that,  but  he 
is  not  a  deliberate  swindler.  He  wouldn't  take  the  trouble. 
He  is  too  self-indulgent.  And  then  if  you  go  and  stop  the 
magazine  now,  you  make  an  association  between  it  and  this 
scandal  that  doesn't  exist.  You  draw  attention  to  it.  You 
ask  people  to  believe — " 

But  at  this  moment  Mr.  Scobell  himself  made  his  appear- 
ance, and  an  angry  man  he  was.  It  was  in  vain  that  Fitz- 
gerald pointed  out  to  him  that  to  stop  the  magazine  that  very 
week  would  be  the  very  thing  to  make  the  public  believe  there 
was  some  connection  between  it  and  what  had  happened. 
"Sassiety,"  Mr.  Scobell  declared,  was  talking  of  nothing  but 
this  scandal ;  and  here  was  Hilton  Clarke's  name  outside  the 
periodical  that  he  owned.  A  nice  thing  to  have  the  editor  of 
your  own  paper  run  away  with  the  wife  of  one  of  your  own 
friends,  and  lead  everybody  to  believe  that  you  had  introduced 
them !  He  would  have  no  more  of  this.  He  had  lost  enough 
money,  without  having  to  incur  scandal  as  well.  No  doubt  it 
was  a  fine  thing  for  literary  men  to  have  a  paper  go  on  for- 
ever— 

"But  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a 
sharpness  that  brought  Mr.  Scobell  to  his  senses.  "  If  you  are 
tired  of  the  magazine,  and  have  no  faith  in  it,  drop  it  when  you 
like.  I  was  only  anxious  you  should  not  associate  it  with  a 
merely  personal  scandal.  But  you  needn't  talk  as  if  it  had 
been  a  fine  thing  for  me.  For  all  my  work  on  it  I  have  re- 
ceived £10 ;  I  should  have  made  more  at  sweeping  a  crossing. " 


128  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Mr.  Scobell  was  bewildered  ;  but  when  the  circumstances 
were  exphiined  to  him,  he  not  only  exempted  Fitzgerald  from 
the  vague  chai-ge  he  had  brought  against  literary  persons  gen- 
erally, but  said  he  had  been  infamously  treated,  and  that  as  he 
m  ight  suti'er  from  the  sudden  cessation  of  the  magazine,  some 
compensation  was  due  to  him. 

"It  was  plunder — a  deliberate  scheme  for  plunder,"  he  main- 
tained. "And  he  has  done  you  as  he  has  done  me.  It  isn't 
more  than  three  weeks  since  he  got  an  extra  £100  from  me.  It 
was  a  deliberate  swindle.  He  never  cared  about  the  mag- 
azine ;  he  never  worked  for  it ;  it  was  a  scheme  to  get  money — " 

"It  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Scobell,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
bluntly.  "  I  know  what  he  thought  of  the  magazine;  I  talked 
enough  with  him  about  it.  He  expected  it  to  be  a  great  pro- 
perty, and  that  as  he  had  presented  you  with  the  idea,  he  ought 
to  have  a  liberal  salary  and  not  too  much  work.  He  is  a  self- 
indulgent  man ;  he  can  deny  himself  nothing.  If  you  and  I 
have  lost  this  money,  you  cau  afford  to  lose  it  better  than  I 
can;  but  there's  no  use  in  making  wild  charges.  It  was  not 
a  scheme  to  defraud;  that  is  absurd.  I  think  he  was  very 
soon  disappointed;  he  didn't  care  to  work  after  that.  And 
then  it  was  a  pity  the  money  should  all  have  been  placed  in 
his  hands;  he  always  seemed  to  think  he  had  a  right  to  every- 
thing within  his  reach.  And  then  I  suppose  this  opportunity 
— this  temptation — was  too  much  for  him,  don't  you  see !" 

"Well,  you  take  it  pretty  quietly,"  said  Scobell,  almost  with 
a  touch  of  indignation,  "  seeing  you  must  have  lost  £G0  or  £70 
through  him." 

"  It  wasn't  altogether  that  I  was  thinking  of,"  said  Fitzger- 
ald.     "I  liked  him." 

Mr.  Scobell  adhered  to  his  determination  to  stop  the  mag- 
azine; but  he  sent  Fitzgerald  a  solatium  in  the  shape  of  a 
check  for  £25.  Thus  it  was  that  Fitzgerald  found  himself 
with  about  four  or  five  months'  pretty  hard  work  thrown 
away,  with  much  less  money  in  his  pocket  than  he  had  come 
to  London  with,  and  without  that  friend  on  whose  occasional 
word  of  sympathy  or  advice  he  had  counted.  But  he  was 
not  much  dismayed,  after  all.  Other  people  had  come  to  Lon- 
don and  fared  worse.  He  saw  lots  of  things  he  thought  he 
could  do — driving  a  hansom,  if  it  came  to  that.     If  his  literary 


A  DISCLOSURE.  139 

adventures  had  so  fai^  been  unsuccessful,  he  had  all  the  more 
material  in  his  desk  for  use  when  the  opportunity  arrived.  He 
was  free  from  debt,  for  he  had  taken  instant  care  to  repaj^  John 
Ross ;  he  could  live  on  little ;  he  had  the  hope  and  courage  of 
three-and-twenty ;  and  when  he  wanted  relief  fi*om  the  cares 
and  troubles  of  the  world,  he  had  the  faculty  of  entirely  losing 
himself  in  a  play  or  a  poem,  so  that  it  was  of  little  consequence 
to  him  whether  the  night  was  cold,  or  whether  there  was  sup- 
per in  his  room  or  not.  Besides,  was  he  not  the  most  fortunate 
of  mortals  in  the  possession  of  Kitty !  How  could  a  man  be 
unhappy  w^ho  had  one  true  heart  continually  thinking  of  him, 
and  cheering  him  with  messages  of  trust  and  love  and  confi- 
dence ? 

"My  brave  Boy"  (Kitty  wrote,  on  hearing  of  the  catas- 
trophe),— "I'm  very  glad.  It  will  open  your  eyes.  It's 
worth  the  money.  Why,  you'll  never  get  on  at  all  if  you  be- 
lieve in  everybody  like  that;  and  if  you  don't  get  on,  what's 
to  become  of  me  ?  I  saw  through  that  whited  sepulchre  of  a 
wretch :  if  I  had  him  here  just  now  I'd  let  him  know  what  I've 
been  thinking  of  him.  And  even  now  you  seem  disposed  to 
make  excuses  for  him.  Perhaps  when  one  person  takes  money 
— and  cruelly  and  meanly  takes  money — that  belongs  to  anoth- 
er person,  he  isn't  called  a  thief  among  gentlemen.  That 
wouldn't  be  refined,  perhaps  ?  Now,  dear  Willie,  once  for  all, 
it  won't  do  for  you  to  go  on  like  that.  All  your  geese  are 
swans  (including  me).  You  have  too  much  poetry  about  you ; 
and  you  are  too  willing  to  believe  in  people;  and  you  were 
made  too  much  of  about  Inisheen.  If  you  keep  all  your  poetry 
for  me,  and  make  me  wonderful  and  glorious,  that's  quite  right, 
for  that  is  just  the  sort  of  person  I  am ;  but  you'll  have  to  give 
up  painting  fancy  portraits  of  other  people.  I  am  younger  than 
you ;  but  I've  seen  a  good  lot.  But  do  you  think  I  want  my 
bonny  Coulin  to  be  hard-hearted  ?  No,  I  don't.  I  want  him 
to  keep  all  his  poetry  and  imagination  for  me ;  and  not  to  be- 
lieve in  anybody  else — further  than  he  can  see  them ;  and  then 
when  he  has  made  his  way  in  the  world,  and  fought  i)eople  on 
their  own  terms,  then  he  can  settle  down  and  let  his  children 
make  a  fool  of  him  to  their  hearts'  content. 

"Willie,  there's  a  man  in  Dublin  bothering  me  with  his 

6* 


130  SHANDON  BELLS. 

bouquets  again;  but  I  don't  allow  tliem  to  be  sent  up,  even 
when  he  manages  to  get  them  left,  and  I  haven't  even  looked 
at  his  card.  I  go  to  Belfast  on  the  13th,  My  father  can't  im- 
agine why  I  don't  go  to  England ;  but  must  I  not  remain  faith- 
ful to  my  boy's  wishes  ?  Dear  Willie,  I  have  read  the  verses  a 
hundred  times  over  that  you  sent  me  with  the  bracelet  on  my 
birthday ;  but  why  are  they  so  sad  ?  I  like  particularly  that 
one  that  ends — 

'0  aching  heart,  that  sinks  or  swells 
Whene'er  at  night  you  hear  the  sound 
So  far  away  of  Shandon  bells !' 

But  are  you  so  very  lonely,  then,  and  only  making  believe  to  be 
comfoi'table  and  happy  when  you  write  to  me  ?  Really,  when 
I  see  the  people  who  haven't  an  ounce  or  an  atom  of  your 
genius  driving  past  in  their  fine  carriages,  I  have  no  patience. 
And  they  come  to  the  concert  and  sit  in  the  stalls  with  their 
diamonds  and  opera  cloaks ;  and  the  young  men  so  spick  and 
span.  Things  are  not  right.  What  can  they  do  ?  Can  they 
do  anything  but  drive  in  the  Phoenix — the  Phaynix  I  suppose 
they'd  call  it.  Yes,  and  I  wonder  how  long  we  may  have  to 
go  on  this  way — everything  unsettled,  and  a  long  distance 
between  us.  And  now  you  have  to  begin  all  over  again, 
thanks  to  your  fine  friend.  But  if  you're  not  afraid,  no  more 
am  I;  and  we'll  snap  our  fingers  at  them  yet;  and  when 
everything's  quite  fair  and  clear,  and  money  all  right,  then 
you'll  publish  a  whole  volume  of  poems  telling  the  country  all 
about  me  and  my  wonderfulness  (I  am  wonderful,  I  can  tell 
you ;  when  I  think  of  the  way  I  bear  up  against  your  being  so 
far  away  from  me,  I  am  lost  in  admiration  of  myself).  That 
reminds  me  that  I  have  made  a  conundrum.  This  is  it: 
'  Why  should  my  Coulin  be  the  happiest  man  in  England  V 
Now  you  may  twist  this  about  any  way,  and  you  may  pull  it 
to  pieces,  and  put  it  together  again,  and  turn  it  upside  down 
and  round  about  half  a  dozen  times  over,  and  yet  you  would 
never  find  out  the  answer.  I  say  you  wouldn't ;  anj'body  else 
in  the  world  would  see  it  in  a  moment.  It's  '  Because  Fm  in 
love  with  him.''  I  think  this  is  very  good;  keep  it  a  secret. 
"Your  obliged  and  humble  servant, 

"Kitty." 


A  GO-BETWEEN.  131 

London  did  not  feel  quite  so  lonely  that  evening.  There 
was  to  be  an  Irish-ballad  concert  in  St.  James's  Hall  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  this  letter  had  pvit  him  into  svich  a  cheerful  frame 
of  mind  that  he  thought  he  would  go  away  up  there  and  get 
some  cheap  place;  and  then,  sitting  all  by  himself,  and  not  be- 
ing obliged  to  talk  to  any  one,  he  would  be  able  to  hear  if  any 
of  them  could  sing  the  Irish  songs  like  Kitty. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  GO-BETWEEN. 

Two  days  after  the  public  announcement  had  been  made 
that  there  was  to  be  no  more  of  the  Household  Magazine,  Fitz- 
gerald was  sitting  in  that  solitary  room  of  his,  alone.  The 
morning  was  crisp  and  clear ;  there  was  a  wintry  feeling  in  the 
air ;  the  sunlight  falling  into  the  little  court-yard  was  cheerful 
enough,  even  if  the  small  plane-trees  had  lost  their  leaves.  But 
it  was  not  of  the  Pulham  Road  he  was  thinking,  now  that  he 
had  put  away  from  him  the  sheet  of  i)aper  on  the  table.  This 
first  touch  of  the  winter  had  awakened  dreams.  Now  the  pic- 
ture before  his  absent  eyes  was  Kenvane  Head ;  the  blue  sea  all 
murmuring;  the  vast  caves  silent  and  mysterious;  his  only 
companion  a  sagacious,  quick-eyed  spaniel,  lying  with  his  nose 
between  his  paws,  and  yet  evidently  not  understanding  why 
his  master  should  thus  be  content  to  sit  and  muse,  instead  of  be- 
ing up  and  after  the  wild  fowl.  Again  it  was  a  wild  moor- 
land on  a  bitter  cold  night;  Andy  the  Hopper  and  he  each 
cramped  up  in  a  barrel  sunk  into  the  bog;  both  breathlessly 
waiting  for  the  sudden  whir  overhead  of  the  duck.  Or  rather 
was  it  not  of  that  wonderful  day  when  Miss  Romayne  first 
condescended  to  go  out  iiito  the  open  light  of  the  streets  with 
him;  his  consciousness  that  all  Cork  was  looking  at  and  ad- 
miring her;  the  delight  of  recommending  a  particular  seat  on 
board  the  steamer;  the  sail  past  the  golden  autumn  woods,  and 
the  broad  shallows  of  the  river,  out  into  the  great,  shining, 
windy  harbor,  with  its  glancing  waves,  and  white  yachts,  and 
islands ;  her  admiration  of  a  pretty  bare-headed  lass  at  Aghada, 


132  SHANDON  BELLS. 

whose  hail'  seemed  to  have  been  bleached  by  the  sea  air  and  the 
sunlight  into  different  shades  of  golden  brown,  and  Kitty's  tim- 
id remark  that  slie  thought  his  hair  was  like  that  (followed 
by  a  quick  blush,  for  their  acquaintanceship  at  that  time  did 
not  quite  justify  personal  criticism) ;  and  then,  finally,  his  faith- 
ful escort  of  her  home  in  the  evening,  Miss  Patience  most  hap- 
pily being  confined  to  her  house  with  neuralgia.  Or  was  it  of 
that  other  day  when,  at  a  later  period  of  their  intimacy,  he  had 
inveigled  her  away  into  a  boat  with  him ;  the  Atlantic  calm  and 
blue;  Kitty  getting  her  first  lessons  in  rowing,  and  pulling 
away  so  bravely  that  by-and-by  it  was  discovered  that  her  i)oor 
little  white  hands  had  become  quite  rosy  red  inside;  then  fish- 
ing off  the  deep  shelving  rocks;  her  shriek  of  delight  when 
she  felt  a  tug;  her  shriek  of  fear  when  he  hauled  in  for  her  a 
gasping  and  flopping  gurnard ;  their  luncheon  on  the  beach, 
and  the  wonder  of  having  Kitty  wait  on  him  and  offer  him 
things ;  then  the  row  home,  Kitty  lying  snugly  in  the  stern,  chat- 
ting, or  laughing,  or  singing,  as  the  mood  overtook  her,  the 
while  the  westering  sun  sank  slowly  toward  the  horizon,  and 
the  heavens  became  a  blaze  of  green  and  gold  and  crimson 
fire,  and  the  clear  star  of  the  light-house,  high  up  there  on  tlis 
cliff,  shone  out  to  sea.  On  this  wintry  morning  his  thoughts 
and  dreams  were  far  away  indeed  from  the  Fulham  Eoad. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stair  outside. 

"  John  Ross  come  back  from  Cookham,"  he  thouglit. 

But  when,  in  answer  to  a  shai'p  knock,  he  went  and  opened 
the  door,  it  was  not  the  Scotch  artist,  but  Mr.  Scobell,  he  found 
before  him — Mr.  Scobell,  looking  very  smart  indeed  with  his 
glazed  boots,  his  dog-skin  gloves,  and  cane. 

"How  are  you,  Fitzgerald  ?"  said  he,  and  as  he  entered  the 
big  bare  room  he  looked  curiously  around,  for  this  was  his  first 
visit.  "Hope  you're  not  busy.  Glad  to  find  you  at  home.  So 
this  is  your  bunk,  is  it  ?  Hum,  you're  not  so  well  housed  as 
Hilton  Clarke  was  in  the  Albany.  Perhaps  that  is  because  you 
live  on  your  own  money,  and  not  on  some  one  else's." 

"  I  don't  think  thei'e's  any  use  in  going  back  on  that,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  uneasily. 

"Oh,  you  take  it  very  easily — very  easily.  Quite  right  to 
stick  up  for  your  friend,  though,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that 
way.     That's  not  quite  how  I  see  it." 


A  GO-BETWEEN.  135 

He  sat  down,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  tapped  the  tip  of  his 
boot  with  his  cane. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  he,  calmly,  "I  have  been  trying  these 
last  two  or  three  days  to  find  out  how  I  came  to  be  such  a  fool 
as  to  go  into  anything  that  Hilton  Clarke  proposed.  But  he  is 
a  devilish  plausible  fellow— devilish  plausible.  There's  a  sort 
of  infernal  superior  air  about  him  that  imposes  on  people; 
you  can't  imagine  he'd  swindle  you — " 

' '  I  don't  think  we  need  talk  about  it,  for  we  sha'n't  agree 
about  it,"  said  Fitzgerald,  bluntly. 

"Well,  he  has  made  me  dance  to  a  pretty  tune.  Do  you 
know  how  much  he  has  got  out  of  me  altogether  ?" 

"You  appear  to  f oi^get, "  said  Fitzgerald,  somewhat  angrily, 
"  that  you  went  into  that  scheme  entirely  as  a  business  matter. 
It  looked  promising  enough.  You  had  your  eyes  open.  I 
suppose  if  it  had  been  successful,  if  it  had  made  money,  and 
been  socially  a  success,  there  would  not  have  been  any  talk 
aboiit  swindling — " 

"Very  well,  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  good-naturedly, 
"we  will  not  talk  about  it.  I  consider  you  have  more  right 
to  complain  than  I  have.  But  I  did  not  come  here  to  talk 
about  Clarke.     I  came  here  to  talk  about  you." 

He  glanced  round  the  apartment;  then  at  the  small  table, 
with  its  bottle  of  ink  and  big  sheets  of  paper. 

"  I  suppose,  now,"  said  he,  with  an  abstracted,  dreamy  air, 
as  if  he  was  talking  of  something  a  long  way  off — "  I  suppose, 
now,  it  isn't  very  easy  to  get  on  in  literature  in  London  ?" 

"I  find  it  difficult  enough;  in  fact,  I  can't  get  on  at  all," 
said  Fitzgerald ;  and  then  he  added,  with  a  kind  of  rueful  smile : 
' '  However,  I  have  not  quite  despaired  yet.  I  am  trying  to  find 
out  whether  it  is  my  work  that  is  bad,  or  whether  it  is  that  the 
newspapers  and  magazines  are  overmanned;  or  there  is  this 
possibility — that  my  work  may  not  be  so  very  bad,  and  yet 
just  miss  something  that  makes  it  practicable  and  suitable. 
Well,  I  hope  to  find  out  in  time — and  the  sooner  the  better 
for  me." 

"Yes,  no  doubt,"  observed  Mr.  Scobell,  again  assuming  that 
contemj)lative  air.  "You  have  applied  to  the  Times,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"No;  I  imagine  every  one  applies  to  the  Ti'm^.s,"  Fitzger- 


13G  SHANDON  BELLS. 

aid  said.  "  And  then  there  is  a  great  drawback ;  I  don't  know 
short-hand — " 

"You  can  learn — " 

"  I  ought  to  have  learned  it  long  ago.  It  takes  a  terrible 
time,  and  constant  practice,  they  say,  before  you  are  worth  any- 
thing to  a  newspaper.  I  ought  to  have  learned  it  while  I  had 
a  fixed  situation  in  Cork.  That  was  my  chance.  Well,  I 
lost  my  chance,  partly,  I  suppose,  because  I  had  ambitions  be- 
yond newspaper- work,  and  partly  because  I  could  get  too  eas- 
ily down  to  my  native  place,  where  there  was  always  a  gun  or  a 
rod.  Now  I  am  paying  the  penalty;  for  the  newspapers  don't 
seem  to  want  my  fine  literature,  and  I  can't  offer  them  good 
reporting." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  regarding  him  with  an 
air  of  the  most  magnificent  patronage,  "I  am  delighted  to 
hear  you  talk  so  sensibly  —  delighted  !  You  have  common- 
sense.  Sooner  or  later  the  public  will  listen  to  you.  They 
will  discover  that  you  can  recognize  facts.  But  in  the  mean 
time,"  added  this  artful  diplomatist,  with  somewhat  greater 
caution — "in  the  mean  time,  you  see,  you  must  make  the 
best  of  it — " 

"  No  doubt— " 

' '  But  wait  a  moment.  When  I  see  you  in  such  a  reasonable 
and  sensible  way  of  thinking,  I  don't  think  I  can  do  better 
than  put  before  you  a  proposal — a  suggestion — that  was  made 
to  me  yesterday  by  Mrs.  Chetwynd.  Now  she  is  also  a  person 
of  common-sense.  She  is  practical,  and  she  is  also  sympa- 
thetic. When  she  saw  the  announcement  that  our  magazine 
had  stopped,  it  occurred  to  her  that  you  might  have  a  little 
more  time  on  your  hands;  and  she  sent  for  me  at  once." 

"Yes  ?"  said  Fitzgerald;  tliough  he  did  not  quite  see  what 
literaiy  employment  he  could  obtain  from  Mrs.  Chetwynd. 

"To  make  a  long  story  short — for  we  had  a  considerable 
talk  about  you — the  sum  and  substance  of  her  suggestion  is 
this :  that,  if  you  had  time  to  spare  from  your  genei'al  literary 
work,  it  miglit  be  worth  your  while  to  accept  some  additional 
occupation  which,  with  no  great  trouble,  might— ah — might, 
in  fact,  increase  your  income." 

' '  I  would  gladly, "  said  Fitzgerald,  without  hesitation.  ' '  But 
it  sounds  rather — rather  vague,  doesn't  it  ?" 


A  GO-BETWEEN.  137 

"Oh  no.  She  had  a  distinct  proposal.  If  you  will  read  to 
her  for  an  hour  each  day,  she  would  give  you  a  certain  salary 
— small,  you  know,  but  then,  an  addition,  as  I  suggested — in 
short,  one  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

"To  read  to  her  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  sudden  flush  on 
his  forehead.  "  Isn't  that  more  like  the  occupation  of  a  wait- 
ing-maid ?" 

"  Oh  no,  certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  with  an  eagerness 
which  showed  that  he  had  been  looking  forward  to  this  objec- 
tion. "Not  at  all,  I  assure  you.  That  is  just  the  mistake  you 
make.  What  Mrs.  Chetwynd  must  have,  first  of  all,  is  an  in- 
telligent and  cultivated  i-eader,  who  knows  about  politics  and 
literature,  and  what's  going  on.  Very  good  people  go  to  her 
house — the  best,  indeed ;  and  she  wants  to  know  what  is  going 
on.  Very  well ;  the  poor  old  lady  is  nearly  blind ;  she  can't 
read ;  what  more  natural  than  that  she  should  say  to  herself, 
'  Well,  now,  if  I  can  find  an  intelligent  young  literary  man 
who  could  spare  me  an  hour  or  so,  he  could  pick  out  just 
such  things  as  are  important,  and  I  should  have  the  advantage 
of  his  judgment  in  literary  matters,  and  it  might  be  some  little 
help  to  him.'  She  is  a  very  kindly  and  thoughtful  old  lady, 
let  me  tell  you,  Fitzgerald;  and  before  rejecting  her  offer  at 
once,  you  ought  to  think  over  it — " 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  her,  and  to  you  also,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  who  was  obviously  hesitating.  "  And  any  sort  of 
settled  income  I  should  be  glad  to  have.  But — but  if  all  this 
is  needed,  who  has  been  reading  to  her  hitherto  ?" 

"  Why,  she  told  you,  don't  you  remember  ?"  said  Mr.  Scobell, 
who  perceived  that  he  was  likely  to  be  successful  in  his  com- 
mission. "Her  niece.  But  then  Miss  Chetwynd's  personal 
occupations  seem  to  take  uj)  more  and  more  of  her  time.  You 
have  no  idea  what  that  girl  has  on  her  hands.  And  so  sharp 
she  is — as  sharp  as  a  needle.  By  Jove,  she  caught  me  yester- 
day afternoon  as  clean  as  ever  you  saw !  I  said  to  her,  '  Well, 
now.  Miss  Chetwynd,  I  hear  a  great  deal  of  this  Society  of  yours, 
and  of  what  you  are  doing  in  the  East  End.'  'Oh  yes,'  she 
says,  '  people  talk  of  what  a  few  of  us  are  trying  to  do,  and  they 
think  it  heroic,  and  interesting,  and  all  that,  whereas  it  is 
quite  prosaic  and  simple;  but  what  they  won't  do  is  to  bother 
themselves  to  give  us  the  least  help.'     Well,  don't  you  know, 


138  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Fitzgerald,  this  was  rather  a  poser;  so  I  said  to  her — there 
were  some  very  distinguished  people  in  the  room,  mind  you — 

Professor ,  and  Professor ,  and  Canon ,  and  a  lot 

more — and  I  said  to  her  that  I  wasn't  afraid  to  go  down  to 
Shoreditch,  or  Shadwell,  or  whatever  the  blessed  place  was, 
and  lend  a  helping  hand  now  and  again.  I  have  plenty  of 
time ;  I  have  a  little  spare  cash  now  and  then ;  I  thought  it  was 
natural  enough.  No;  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it;  I  knew  no- 
thing about  the  peo^jle ;  indiscreet  charity  was  the  worst  enemy 
they  had;  and  so  on.  'Well,'  I  said  to  her,  like  an  ass  as 
I  was,  '  you  must  be  very  confident,  when  you  refuse  help  in 
that  way.'  'Oh,  but  I  don't,' she  says,  as  sharp  as  a  needle. 
'  If  you  really  wish  to  help  us,  you  can  do  so ;  you  can  buy  us 
three  hundred  filters;  we  are  very  badly  in  want  of  them.' 

Three  hundred  filters!     And  then  Professor laughed,  as 

if  it  was  a  great  joke;  but  I  can  tell  you  I  wasn't  going  to 
be  jumped  upon  by  a  jackass-headed  old  idiot  like  that,  so  I 
said,  just  as  I  might  be  talking  to  you,  '  Of  course  you  shall 
have  them.  Miss  Chetwynd.'  And  now  the  mischief  is,  I 
haven't  the  slightest  notion  what  they'll  cost — five  shillings, 
half  a  sovereign,  a  couple  of  guineas — " 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  so  dear  as  that, "said  Fitzgerald.  "  That 
one  over  there  is  a  very  good  little  filter,  and  it  only  cost  me 
half  a  crown." 

"  Half  a  crown.  Thirty-seven  pounds  ten.  Well,  if  it  had 
been  a  hundred  and  thirty-seven  pounds  ten,  I  declare  I'd  have 
paid  it  to  take  the  wind  out  of  the  sails  of  that  lantern-jawed 
old  Behemoth.  But  about  this  matter  of  the  reading,  Fitzger- 
ald. I  did  not  undertake  that  you  would  accept;  but  I  said  I 
would  try  to  persuade  you.     A  hundred  a  year  isn't  much — " 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  to  me,"  said  Fitzgerald,  frankly. 

"Very  well.  What  is  an  hour's  time  a  day  ?  And  there's 
more  than  that.  The  very  best  people  in  London  go  to  that 
house.  A  young  man  ought  to  see  sassiety.  I  think  it  is  a 
great  chance — " 

"Oh,  but  I  can't  go  at  all  if  I  am  to  see  any  one !"  exclaimed 
Fitzgerald,  in  great  dismay.  "I  did  not  understand  that  at 
all—" 

"  Of  course  you  won't  see  them  while  you're  there  on  duty 
— of  course  not.     But  surely  you  understand.     This  old  lady 


A  GO-BETWEEN.  139 

is  interested  in  you.  She  is  a  country-woman  of  yours. 
Something  iu  your  manner,  or  accent,  or  something  in  your 
writing,  reminds  her  of  her  nephew,  who  was  just  the  whole 
world  to  her.  And  of  course  you  will  be  recognized  as  a  friend- 
ly visitor,  not  as  a  slave.  You  may  meet  people ;  it  is  a  great 
chance  for  you.  It  is  one  of  the  very  best  houses  in  London ; 
and  it  is  not  exclusive — cabinet  ministers,  men  of  science,  poets, 
painters,  all  sorts,  as  well  as  the  best-known  members  of  the 
fashionable  world.  There  is  no  house  in  London  more  highly 
spoken  of.  My  dear  fellow,  you  must  be  mad  if  you  think 
twice!" 

"Well,  I  won't  think  twice." 

"That's  right.  And  I  said  if  you  accepted  you  would  call 
on  her  this  evening  at  six :  all  the  visitors  will  have  gone  by 
that  time. " 

Accordingly,  that  evening  Fitzgerald  called  at  the  house  in 
Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  was  immediately  admitted  and  shown 
up  to  the  drawing-room.  Instead,  however,  of  finding  Mrs. 
Chetwynd  there,  he  found  her  niece,  who  was  seated  at  a  ta- 
ble apparently  engaged  in  painting,  and  who  rose  as  he  en- 
tered. He  was  disturbed  and  vexed,  he  knew  not  why.  He 
did  not  like  meeting  those  clear  and  penetrating  eyes,  though 
indeed  they  were  pretty  eyes,  and  had  some  touch  of  friendli- 
ness in  them  as  she  spoke  to  him,  and  said  she  would  go  and 
fetch  her  aunt.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  taking  over  a 
woman's  work,  while  she  herself  was  addressing  herself  to  the 
harder  outside  realities  of  the  world.  That  was  not  a  pleasant 
thought — especially  if  it  had  also  occurred  to  her.  He  was 
somewhat  relieved  when  the  tall  clear-eyed  young  lady,  whose 
natural  grace  of  manner  somewhat  softened  the  serious  sim- 
plicity and  dignity  of  her  face  and  figure,  left  the  room.  Nay, 
he  rejoiced  to  think  that  he  had  caught  her  painting.  That  was 
something  pretty  and  feminine.  As  there  was  a  complete  si- 
lence outside  the  door,  he  ventured  to  approach  the  table  where 
she  had  been  seated,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  work.  And  then 
he  found  that  instead  of  coloring  Christmas  cards,  or  finishing 
up  a  little  bit  of  imaginary  landscape,  she  had  been  engaged 
in  copying  on  to  a  magic-lantern  slide,  from  a  scientific  book 
lying  open  there,  the  appearance  of  a  magnified  drop  of  impure 
water,  with  the  most  ghastly  creatures  squirming  about  with- 


140  SHANDON  BELLS. 

in  the  charmed  circle.     He  had  just  time  to  retreat  a  step  or 
two  when  aunt  and  niece  entered. 

The  little  old  lady  received  him  in  the  most  gracious  way, 
and  begged  him  to  be  seated,  while  her  niece  was  making  her 
comfortable  in  an  easy-chair  bj^  the  lire.  That  accomplished, 
Miss  Chetwynd  took  up  her  painting  materials  and  disappeared. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  disturbed  your  niece,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
anxiously,  "  by  calling  at  this  hour." 

"Oh  dear  no!"  the  old  lady  said,  warming  her  mittened 
hands  at  the  fire.  "  Oh  dear  no.  I  dare  say  she  is  off  to  her 
magic  lantern  now.  She  means  to  frighten  some  of  her  poor 
people  into  using  filters ;  and  your  friend  Mr.  Scobell,  by-the- 
way,  is  going  to  get  her  the  filters.  She  is  a  very  good  girl,  is 
Mary ;  and  very  industrious ;  I  only  hope  she  won't  catch  some 
dreadful  fever  in  those  places.  But  don't  talk  to  her,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,  if  you  please,  about  her  work.  She  says  there  is 
too  much  talk.  Oh,  by-the-way,  perhaps  I  am  going  too  fast 
in  assuming  that  you  are  going  to  take  pity  on  a  poor  old  blind 
woman,  and  let  her  know  what's  going  on  ?" 

"  If  I  can,"  said  he,  "  but  I  scarcely  know — " 

"Oh,  but  you  shall  have  absolute  libei-ty,"  she  said,  blithely. 
"You  shall  order  any  books  or  newspapers  that  you  like  your- 
self; and  I  am  looking  forward  to  such  a  treat;  for  I  have 
had  to  live  so  long  on  the  dry  bones  of  science !  You  know', 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  Mary  is  the  best  of  girls;  but  she  can't  help 
thinking  that  I  am  interested  in  what  interests  her;  and  real- 
ly, as  you  said  so  cleverly  the  other  day,  one  gets  weary  of 
the  frog's  foot,  and  would  prefer  a  little  human  nature.  And 
Mary  laughs  at  me  for  a  silly  old  woman  when  I  have  listened 
most  patiently  to  her  Post-office  Savings-banks  scheme,  and  her 
plan  for  ventilating  sick-rooms,  and  all  about  her  hospital 
nurses,  and  when  I  say  to  her,  '  Mary  dear,  just  to  go  in  to  din- 
ner with  a  pleasanter  taste  in  the  mouth,  won't  you  read  me  a 
chapter  of  ConsiieloV  And  really  it  is  wonderful  what  that 
girl  gets  thi'ough  in  a  day;  learning  herself  and  teaching  other 
people;  and  afraid  of  no  amount  of  trouble  or  disappointment. 
Oh  yes;  and  I  can  see  that  her  reading  is  not  thrown  away; 
for  sometimes,  when  the  scientifics,  as  I  call  them,  are  here, 
though  she  does  not  say  much,  you  can  hear  that  she  has  just 
hit  the  point  in  dispute ;  and  they  are  all  very  kind  to  her,  I'm 


A  GO-BETWEEN.  141 

sure.  Now,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  am  so  glad  tliat  this  has  been 
arranged ;  and  I  hope  we  shall  try  to  make  it  not  very  irksome 
to  you.     What  hour  would  suityovi  best  ?" 

"But  that  is  for  you,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,to  say,"  answered  the 
young  man.  "Any  hour,  indeed,  would  suit  me;  for  I  have 
no  definite  occupation  at  the  moment,  since  the  Household 
Magazine  was  stopped." 

"A  quarter  to  six  in  the  evening  would  suit  me  very  well, 
then,"  said  the  old  lady.  "For  at  this  time  of  the  year  we 
keei5  open  table — a  quarter  to  seven  table  d'hote  in  fact,  with- 
out any  ceremony,  and  anybody  who  likes  can  drop  in,  and  then 
be  off  to  then*  lectures  and  what  not.  That  is  very  useful  for 
Mary;  she  sees  everybody;  and  has  not  got  to  sacrifice  the 
whole  evening.  Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  if  you  could 
make  it  convenient  to  call  at  a  quarter  to  six,  and  spend  an 
hour  with  the  newspapers  or  new  books,  I  should  go  in  to  meet 
my  friends  quite  coached  up,  and  then  I  shouldn't  have  to  ask 
them  whether  Queen  Anne  was  dead  or  not.  And  I  know 
you'll  have  pity  on  me,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  and  not  choose  books 
that  are  too  dreadfully  learned.  We  will  leave  the  bismuth 
in  the  moon  alone,  even  if  you  have  to  read  me  the  broken- 
hearted poems  in  the  provincial  newspapers." 

And  so,  with  a  very  pretty  little  laugh,  and  an  appointment 
for  the  very  next  evening,  this  interview  was  concluded ;  and 
Fitzgerald,  as  he  walked  away  down  through  the  gas-lit  streets 
to  Fulliam,  was  thinking  that  this  time  there  could  be  no 
mistake,  that  this  time  he  could  definitely  assure  Kitty  that  he 
was  in  possession  of  a  settled  income,  however  small.  And 
there  were  other  things  that  occurred  to  him.  He  could  not 
help  regarding  it  as  one  of  the  oddest  possible  results  of  the  con- 
ditions of  modern  society  that  he,  a  man,  should  have  been 
constituted,  as  it  were,  the  champion  of  sentiment  as  against 
science,  and  that  his  antagonist,  the  champion  of  science, 
should  prove  to  be  a  young  lady  of  very  considerable  personal 
attractions.  The  situation  seemed  to  him  novel;  and  he  kept 
wondering  what  Mary  Chetwynd  thought  of  it,  if,  indeed,  she 
bad  time  to  think  of  such  trivial  things  at  all. 


142  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NEIGHBORS. 

To  be  a  man  of  letters  in  London — how  many  young  people, 
in  remote  corners  of  the  country,  are  at  this  present  moment 
thinking  that  there  can  he  nothing  finer  than  that,  and  per- 
haps secretly  wondering  whether  they  might  not  risk  the  ven- 
tui'e  and  try  to  make  such  a  career  their  own!  When  Fitz- 
gerald resolved  to  quit  the  security  of  that  provincial  newspa- 
per ofiice  and  try  his  fortune  in  the  great  capital,  he  was  fairly 
equipped  for  the  enterprise.  His  education,  if  not  extensive, 
had  been  thorough  as  far  as  it  went ;  he  was  well  read ;  he  had 
taken  immense  pains  in  mastering  a  certain  simplicity  of  style ; 
he  was  familiar  with  many  subjects  and  ways  of  life  that  the 
ordinary  writer,  mostly  a  dweller  in  towns,  knows  very  little 
about;  he  had  youth,  health,  and  a  frank  face;  and  his  heart 
was  fired  with  love,  which  was  likely  to  add  a  little  touch  of  po- 
etical glamour  to  his  i^roductions.  But  his  experiences  fell 
far  short  of  his  buoyant  anticitrntions.  His  ignorance  of  short- 
hand barred  the  familiar  gateway  of  the  newspapers.  Then  he 
found  that  those  magazines  which  were  the  most  ready  to  accept 
his  contributions  were  the  least  prompt  in  paying  for  them. 
Moreover,  he  had  sadly  to  confess  to  himself  that  those  contri- 
butions which  he  could  get  accepted  were  not  literature  at  all. 
They  were  mere  manufacture — compilations  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum. At  first  he  had  aimed  at  something  higher.  Disregard- 
ing Hilton  Clarke's  di  paragement  of  criticism,  he  had  made 
some  careful  studies  of  one  or  two  of  the  pre-Shakspearean 
dramatists:  no  editor  would  look  at  them.  Then  he  tried  es- 
says on  social  and  domestic  subjects ;  but  every  avenue  seem- 
ed to  be  blocked.  Occasionally  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  find- 
ing a  bit  of  ti'anslation  from  Catullus  or  Horace  accepted; 
though  he  rightly  judged  that  magazine  editors  looked  on 
such  things  as  handy  for  filling  up  half  a  page.  No,  there  was 
no  help  for  it;  he  might  cultivate  the  higher  literature  for  his 
own  satisfaction,  but  if  he  wanted  to  supplement  that  one  hun- 


NEIGHBORS.  143 

dred  pounds  a  year  he  was  now  in  receipt  of,  and  so  be  able 
to  write  hopeful  letters  to  Kitty,  what  he  had  to  sit  down  and 
compose  was  a  useful  little  paper  on  "  The  Successive  Discover- 
ies of  Kaolin,"  or  "The  Origin  of  the  English  Eace-Horse,"  or 
some  such  practical  subject.  It  was  not  literature;  but  it 
brought  Kitty  a  little  nearer. 

John  Eoss  was  doing  him  a  mischief.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  the  Scotch  artist  to  take  this  young  comx^anion  of  his  about 
with  him,  and  give  him  a  new  pair  of  eyes,  and  color  up  the 
world  for  him ;  but  unconsciously  to  himself  Fitzgerald  was 
adopting  in  his  own  work  Eoss's  way  of  looking  at  things. 
Eoss  was  purely  and  simply  an  impressionist;  a  vivid  sug- 
gestion was  what  he  aimed  at,  careless  of  subsequent  detail  or 
even  precise  accuracy  of  form.  And  it  was  so  delightful  to 
Fitzgerald  to  walk  abroad  with  this  man,  and  see  the  common- 
est things  in  the  world  intensified  with  a  new  interest,  that  he 
insensibly  yielded  to  the  fascination,  and  forgot  that  he  was  a 
writer  and  not  a  painter.  The  objects  of  life  became  to  him  so 
many  pieces  of  color ;  when  he  looked  at  a  long  terrace  of  build- 
ings shining  clear  on  a  summer's  day,  it  was  not  to  guess  at  the 
rent  of  the  houses,  or  wonder  whether  they  were  well  drained, 
or  whether  there  were  any  sick  people  there  unable  to  come  out 
into  the  sunlight,  but  to  observe  that  the  warm  brilliant  mass  of 
yellow  made  the  blue  above  more  intense.  If  the  life  of  a 
man  of  letters  in  London,  so  far  as  he  had  experience  of  it, 
was  disapiDointing  and  prosaic,  these  occasional  walks  with 
his  artist  companion  brought  back  some  poetry  into  the  world. 
"  lo  anche  son  pittore,"  he  might  have  said,  so  wonderfully  did 
his  faculty  of  observation  develop  under  this  i*ough-and-ready, 
quari'elsome,  enthusiastic  tutelage;  but  he  was  much  too  wise 
to  attempt  anything  with  the  brush.  ^ 

"  Man,"  said  John  Eoss  to  him  one  day,  as  they  were  walk- 
ing out  in  the  suburbs,  "  what  a  grand  thing  it  must  be  to  be 
like  you !" 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  Master  Willie,  whose  fortunes  did  not 
seem  to  himself  to  be  so  flourishing. 

' '  Ay,  just  to  be  able  to  look  at  the  things  that  nature  puts  be- 
fore ye,  and  never  to  have  a  thocht  o'  how  ye're  going  to  make 
money  out  o'  them.  What  wouldna  I  give  to  be  a  laddie  again, 
just  for  an  hour,  and  lie  down  on  a  warm  bank  in  the  sun. 


144  SHANDON  BELLS. 

and  watcli  the  clear  waters  of  the  burnie  twirlin'  round  the 
stanes,  and  the  speedwells  on  the  banks,  and  the  red  rowans  on 
the  trees,  and  everything  like  that,  and  just  to  let  your  eyes 
drink  it  in  without  even  thinking  of  the  infernal  pent-box  ? 
Man,  ifs  a  terrible  thing  to  have  to  go  through  the  world  just 
conteenually  warslin'  wi'  tubes  o'  colors.  There's  no  two 
things  that  I  see  thegither  that  I  hav'na  to  take  the  balance  of; 
it's  a  disease — confound  it !  it's  a  disease.  I'm  a  man ;  why 
shouldna  I  be  allowed  to  go  through  the  woi'ld  and  look  at  it 
like  another  man  ?  It's  a  pent-box  that's  the  millstone  round 
my  neck.  Why  should  I  cai-e  about  they  palings  ?"  he  said, 
as  they  were  passing  a  cabbage  garden.  ' '  I'm  not  going  to  pent 
them !     What  is  it  to  me  what  color  they  are !" 

"Well,  that  can't  bother  you  anyway,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with 
a  laugh,  "  for  they  haven't  any  color." 

"  Dinna  be  so  sui'e  about  that,  laddie,"  said  the  other.  "  Ye 
think  they're  gray,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Well,  aren't  they  ?" 

"Oh,  ay.  No  doubt,  if  ye  took  a  bit  o'  the  wood  in  your 
hand,  ye  would  find  it  gray  and  colorless  enough.  But  just 
you  try  to  fix  your  eyes  on  the  wooden  paling  and  on  the  vio- 
lent greens  o'  the  cabbages  at  the  same  time.  Is  the  wood 
quite  so  gray  ?" 

"  No,"  Fitzgerald  had  to  admit.  "Not  quite  so  gi'ay.  In 
fact,  rather  lilac,  isn't  it  ?  In  fact,  it  is  quite  a  pinkish-lilac, 
if  you  look  at  the  two  together." 

"  Ay,  and  that's  what  ye've  got  to  pent,  my  laddie.  But  if 
people  '11  no  buy  my  pictures  of  Cookham,  they're  no  likely  to 
buy  a  picture  of  a  cabbage  gairden  in  Chelsea." 

"But,  after  all,  Ross,"  said  his  companion,  "  writing  people 
are  just  as  badly  ofl^  as  painting  people,  for  they  have  to  keep 
watching  and  watching — " 

"But  they  hav'na  to  warsle  wi'  the  pigments,  man,"  the  oth- 
er said,  impatiently.  "When  ye  see  a  thing  is  yellow,  ye  say 
it's  yellow,  and  there's  an  end ;  but  the  penter  has  got  to  get 
that  particular  quality  out  o'  an  infernal  tin  tube,  and  even 
then  put  it  into  all  sorts  o'  relations  with  the  things  round  it. 
I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  been  brought  up  a  penter  o'  shop  doors 
and  shutters,  and  I  could  have  had  my  own  way  wi'  fine  col- 
or, and  naething  stepping  in  to  .spoil  it." 


NEIGHBORS.  145 

"It's  all  nonsense  your  complaining  like  that,"  Fitzgerald 
said,  finally.  ' '  Instead  of  complaining,  you  ought  to  be  thank- 
ful. The  difference  between  you  and  other  people  is  that  you 
have  trained  yourself  to  see  more.  You  see  beautiful  things 
at  ever}^  turn,  where  they  see  nothing.  Is  there  any  advan- 
tage in  being  partially  blind  ?" 

Had  John  Ross  kept  more  closely  to  his  studio  in  the  Fulham 
Road,  no  doubt  Fitzgerald's  life  at  this  time  would  have  been 
a  pleasanter  one.  But  he  was  much  away;  especially  when  he 
had  got  a  few  pounds  for  a  sketch ;  and  his  neighbor,  up  there 
in  the  solitary  room,  felt  the  winter  nights  to  be  long  and  dark. 
The  hour  spent  in  reading  and  talking  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd 
was  the  bi'ight  spot  of  the  day;  when  he  returned  to  his  lonely 
lodgings,  and  this  almost  hopeless  manufacture  of  articles  in 
which  he  took  nothing  but  the  most  perfunctory  interest,  some- 
times the  world  seemed  to  weigh  heavily  on  him.  But,  curi- 
ously enough,  it  was  always  at  such  moments,  when  circum- 
stances seemed  to  hem  him  in,  when  the  battle  of  life  appear- 
ed to  be  going  against  him,  when  the  future  seemed  growing 
dark  indeed,  that  his  imagination  broke  through  these  toils  and 
carried  him  into  a  sphere  of  creation  where  his  work  was  a 
joy  to  him.  No  matter  how  insignificant  the  result  might  be; 
it  was  the  expression  of  something  within  him  that  he  himself 
could  not  well  understand ;  it  was  not  of  the  slightest  conse- 
quence to  him  what  editors  might  think  of  it.  One  night,  for 
example,  he  was  laboring  away  at  an  article  on  "  Some  Partic- 
ulars of  the  Earthquake  at  Lisbon."  He  had  been  for  two 
days  at  the  British  Museum ;  and  he  had  copious  notes  before 
him.  He  was  trying  to  make  the  picture  as  graphic  as  he  could ; 
but  it  was  distressing  work;  and  he  did  not  even  know  where 
to  send  it  when  he  had  it  finished.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  slight 
hissing  sound  in  the  fire — like  that  produced  by  rain  falling 
down  the  short  chimney.  But  he  could  hear  no  sound  of  rain 
on  the  slates.  He  went  to  the  window ;  there  was  an  absolute 
silence;  but  there  were  dark  streaks  crossing  the  orange  glow 
of  the  lamp  in  the  court-yard.  He  opened  the  window  and 
put  out  his  hand:  it  was  stung  by  the  sharp,  moist  touch  of 
snow.  And  then  what  must  he  needs  do  but  hastily  put  on  his 
cap  and  issue  out  into  the  dark  to  feel  this  soft  thing  blowing 
all  about  him — touching  his  lips,  his  eyelashes,  his  hands — this 

7 


146  SHANDON  BELLS. 

soft,  silent  thing-  that  made  a  wondei'  of  the  lonely  streets.  He 
wandered  on  and  on  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy ;  voices  seemed  calling 
to  him  from  the  past;  he  knew  not  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 
His  blood  tingled  with  joy  at  the  presence  of  this  new  strange 
thing;  and  yet  there  was  a  kind  of  despair,  as  if  he  yearned 
for  some  one  far  away ;  and  there  was  a  doom  portending ;  an 
agony  of  love  and  terror  and  appeal.  Then  a  phrase  here  or 
there ;  and  it  was  a  lover  who  spoke ;  and  the  voice  of  the  sea 
could  be  heai'd  now  in  the  awful  caves.  Quite  blindly,  like 
one  in  a  dream,  and  not  heeding  the  snow,  he  made  his  way 
back  from  the  dark  lanes  to  his  room,  and  almost  mechanically 
he  sat  down  to  his  writing-table.  He  saw  something  before 
him  not  the  least  like  what  he  had  seen  outside.  It  was  more 
like  the  sea,  and  darkness,  and  the  wild  Irish  coast.  And 
with  an  impatient  cast  here  and  there  for  a  rhyme,  and  all  trem- 
bling, and  even  scarcely  knowing  quite  the  value  of  the  phrases 
he  was  using,  he  put  down  on  paper  what  seemed  to  him  the 
voice  of  some  one  else,  that  he  could  hear  far  off  in  the  night: 

"  The  wild  March  winds  arc  blowing ; 

The  trees  are  dark ;  the  skies  are  gray ; 
0  love,  let  us  be  going — 
The  evening  gathers :  far  the  way. 

"  Oh,  do  you  hear  the  thunder 
On  Daramona's  rocky  isle — 
The  wild  seas  sweeping  under 
The  ghostly  chffs  of  black  Glengyle?" 

He  rose,  with  a  quick  kind  of  sigh,  pushed  the  paper  away, 
and  began  mechanically  to  knock  the  snow  from  his  sleeves 
and  his  coat.  Then  he  went  to  the  fire,  and  lit  a  pipe,  and 
stared  into  the  red  coals  as  if  he  expected  to  see  more  pictures 
there.  And  then,  after  a  time,  he  went  back  to  the  table,  and 
took  ui)  the  bit  of  paper,  and  calmly  and  critically  regarded 
what  he  had  written. 

"Yes,  "he  said  to  himself.  "That's  it.  That's  true.  I  will 
keep  that  for  myself.  There  isn't  an  editor  in  London  would 
give  me  twopence  for  it  anyway ;  and  the  public  would  ask 
where  the  story  was;  but  it  has  got  to  stand  just  as  it  is;  it  is  a 
bit  of  my  personal  property  for  Kitty  to  irdieiit  when  she  be- 
comes a  widow." 


NEIGHBORS.  147 

Just  as  he  was  putting-  away  tlie  bit  of  paper  into  the  desk, 
which  contained  a  very  considerable  quantity  of  similarly 
useless  scraps,  a  noise  was  heard  below ;  and  Fitzgerald's  heart 
jumped  up  at  the  notion  that  pei-haps  John  Ross  had  come 
back  from  Sonning,  where  he  had  been  for  a  fortnight.  There 
was  a  ready  means  of  ascertaining.  He  took  the  poker  and 
knocked  twice  on  the  floor.  In  response  there  were  thi^ee 
knocks  on  the  roof  of  the  studio.  Then  Fitzgerald  made  his 
way  down  the  slippery  steps,  and  caught  Ross  as  he  was  in  the 
act  of  lighting  his  stove. 

"No,  no;  let  that  alone, "he  cried.  "IVe  got  a  blazing  fire 
in  my  bunk.  Come  along  up.  Man,  I've  got  some  sheep's 
tongues  that  '11  make  your  mouth  water,  and  a  yard  of 
French  bread;  only  you  must  bring  some  whiskey  with  you. 
Come  along ;  I  want  to  hear  all  about  Sonning,  and  I  won't  ask 
you  to  show  me  your  sketches." 

"  Ye're  in  a  cheerfu'  frame  of  mind,  laddie,"  said  Ross,  look- 
ing up.      "Have  ye  been  drinkin'  ?" 

"No;  what's  worse,  I've  been  neither  eating  nor  drinking, 
and  I'm  desperately  hungry." 

"And  so  am  I.     Have  ye  got  any  tobacco  ?" 

"Plenty." 

"Wait  a  minute,  then." 

He  went  and  got  a  cloth  and  dusted  the  snow  off  the  packages 
he  had  brought  in;  and  then  he  followed  Fitzgerald  up  the 
staircase,  and  was  soon  engaged  in  helping  him  to  lay  the 
cloth  of  the  supj)er  table  and  open  the  bottles,  and  what  not. 

"  But  I  want  to  ken  what  has  put  ye  in  such  fine  fettle,  man," 
he  said  at  length,  regarding  his  companion  from  across  the 
table.  "Some  young  lass  in  Ireland,  I  suppose,  has  been 
sending  ye  a  true-love  knot.  Poor  thing !  a  lassie  should  nev- 
er let  her  sweetheart  get  so  far  away  as  this ;  it's  no  safe." 

"It  isn't  that,  though.  I've  written  something  I  am  pleased 
with  ;  something  I  am  going  to  keep  for  myself,"  said  Fitzger- 
ald, frankly. 

"Let  us  see  it,  then." 

"  Oh  no.     It  wouldn't  please  any  one  else,  I  know," 

"  Then  what  is  the  use  of  it  ?" 

"None." 

"  And  ye  are  going  on  amusing  yourself  with  capers  instead 


148  SHANDON  BELLS. 

of  getting  money  and  furnishing  a  house  for  the  lass.     Is  that 
what  ye  mean  ?"  said  the  other,  severely. 

"What  lass  ?     What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"I  have  my  suspicions,  my  lad.     But  lefs  see  what  this  is." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Fitzgerald,  at  once  going  and  fetch- 
ing the  sheet  of  scrawled  paper. 

John  Ross  bent  his  brows,  and  proceeded  to  read  the  verses 
line  by  line,  which  was  an  exquisite  piece  of  tortvire  for  the 
writer  of  them. 

"Where  is  Daramona  ?"  said  he,  abrui^tly. 

"I  don't  know." 

When  he  had  finished,  he  looked  at  it  carefully  again,  and 
said,  in  rather  a  jjeevish  sort  of  way,  "Well,  but  have  ye  no- 
thing more  to  tell  us  ?" 

"No." 

"It's  a  ghastly  picture  enough;  oh,  ay,  I  admit  that;  but — 
but  what  is  it  about  ?" 

"I  told  you  you  wouldn't  be  pleased  with  it,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, without  any  resentment. 

"Ye  might  make  some  story — " 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  quite  well.  I  know  what  an  editor  would 
want.  There  would  have  to  be  a  third  verse,  with  two  dead 
bodies  washed  up  l)y  the  sea  somewhere;  or  some  definite  thing 
like  that.  Well,  I  am  not  going  to  patch  it  up  for  sale.  I  am 
going  to  keep  it  as  it  is— of  no  use  to  any  one  but  the  owner." 

John  Ross  was  not  satisfied.  He  looked  at  the  verses  again, 
and  then  grumbled : 

' '  It's  a  good  suggestion — it's  a  capital  suggestion.  But  why 
dinna  ye  follow  it  out  ?" 

"Some  people,"  said  Master  Willie,  slyly,  "might  hint 
that  about  some  of  your  sketches;  and  yet  you  won't  alter 
them." 

"  God  bless  me !"  cried  the  other,  staring  at  liim.  "Has  the 
laddie  gone  daft  ?  Writin'  is  not  pentin',  man !  Do  ye  think 
the  public  are  going  to  take  the  trouble  to  make  a  story  for 
themselves  ?" 

"I  don't  mean  to  ask  them,"  said  Fitzgerald,  simply. 
"That  is  only  a  little  bit  for  my  own  private  satisfaction. 
Won't  you  allow  me  as  much  as  that  ?  I  don't  find  that  eager 
competition  among  editors  and  publishers  for  my  work  that  I 


NEIGHBORS.  149 

should  like.     I  think  the  world  could  get  on  without  literary- 
people — especially  literary  beginnei-s." 

But  he  himself  seemed  to  detect  some  kind  of  false  note  in 
this — some  echo  of  what  Hilton  Clarke  might  have  said.  So 
he  added,  frankly: 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  give  in  yet.  And  I  have  got  hold  of  a 
subject  that  I  think  might  do." 

"What  is't?"  said  his  companion, filling  his  pipe.  "No  too 
big,  I  hope.     Something  practical  ?" 

"Well,  you  know,  when  you  were  up  the  Thames,  my  sup- 
pers here  were  a  little  bit  lonely,"  Fitzgerald  proceeded  to  say, 
as  he  also  drew  in  a  chair  to  the  fire.  "And  I  discovered 
that  you  could  get  a  plate  of  cold  meat,  or  a  bit  of  fowl,  and  a 
glass  of  ale,  at  the  Green  Man,  for  sixpence.  That  again  en- 
titled you  to  go  into  the  parlor  and  have  a  smoke.  I  went  in, 
and  made  a  discovery.  There  are  cronies  who  come  there 
every  evening  and  discuss  the  affairs  of  the  nation.  My  good- 
ness !  I  have  heard  extraordinary  statements  made  in  the 
smoking-rooms  of  inns,  but  never  anything  quite  so  fine.  And 
of  course,  as  a  stranger,  I  had  to  sit  quiet  and  listen  ;  but  what 
I  was  thinking  was  that  there  must  be  a  large  population  in 
this  country  who  get  their  ideas  and  information  from  sources 
that  the  governing  classes  don't  know  anything  about.  What 
are  they,  then  ?  Not  the  ordinary  daily  papers,  for  I  read  them. 
And  this  isn't  the  only  bar-parlor  or  smoking-room  I've  been  in ; 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  series  of  articles  on  public-house 
politics  might  really  be  of  use.     These  men  have  votes." 

"Ay,  the  sources  of  their  information,  did  ye  say?"  said 
Eoss,  grimly.      "Their  own  heads,  maybe." 

"  But  then,"  urged  Fitzgerald,  "when  you  hear  a  man  make 
the  absurdest  statement — about  the  Prime  Minister  having  writ- 
ten so-and-so  to  the  Pope — and  when  he  declares  he  saw  the  let- 
ter in  print,  and  when  everybody  accepts  the  statement,  you 
begin  to  ask  how  such  stories  can  gain  currency — " 

"The  impudence  o'  the  one  man,  and  the  ignorance  o'  the 
ithers,  I  .sliould  think,"  said  Ross. 

' '  No ;  for  these  things  are  talked  of  as  matters  of  common 
knowledge;  and  yet  the  ordinary  organs  of  public  opinion 
know  nothing  of  them — indeed,  they  are  quite  preposterous. 
You  know,  my  father  keeps  an  inn.    I  did  not  go  much  into  the 


150  SHANDON  BELLS. 

smoking-room;  but  I  heard  things  from  time  to  time;  and 
you  wouldn't  believe  the  stories  that  are  commonly  accepted 
about  the  royal  family,  the  naembers  of  the  government,  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  so  on — " 

"You're  right  there,"  Ross  said.  "I  would  not  believe 
them." 

"  The  old  gentlemen  who  meet  at  the  Green  Man  are  very 
loyal,  at  all  events,"  Fitzgerald  continued.  "Will  you  come 
round  to-morrow  night  and  listen  to  them  ?  Oh  no ;  you'd  bet- 
ter not;  they  don't  talk  overrespectfully  about  Scotchmen." 

"  I'll  come  round  wi'  ye,  laddie,  if  ye  like;  but  w^hat  I  want 
to  know  is  how  ye're  going  to  get  any  bread  and  butter  out 
o'  writing  down  the  idiotcy  of  a  lot  of  bemuddled  auld  beer- 
drinkers." 

"But  they  have  votes,"  contested  Fitzgerald.  "And  there 
are  thousands  and  thousands  of  them  throughout  the  country; 
and  their  opinions  spread;  and  surely  it  is  of  importance  to 
know  wdiat  they  are  saying.  If  it  is  absurd,  if  it  is  ludicrous, 
so  much  the  better  for  me.  I  don't  see  why  a  solemn  discus- 
sion on  the  only  fit  and  proper  way  to  govern  Frenchmen,  by 
these  profound  students  of  history,  should  not  be  made  amus- 
ing enough." 

' '  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it  ?  Ye  go  and  get  admitted  into  a  brother- 
hood o'  philosophers,  and  ye  watch  and  wait,  and  then  when 
they  are  wai-med  into  friendship  and  confidence  wi'  their  pipes 
and  their  ale,  and  when  their  poor  wandering  old  wits  begin 
to  dance  and  stagger  about  a  bit,  then  ye  begin  your  thumb- 
nail sketches — you,  sittin'  in  the  corner.  Why,  man,  it's  like 
making  a  fool  o'  your  fayther." 

"I  think  it's  a  very  good  thing,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a 
laugh,  "that  the  one-half  of  the  world  should  know  what  the 
other  half  are  saying." 

"Get  away  wi'  ye!"  said  Ross,  resentfully.  "Do  ye  mean 
to  tell  me  ye  will  give  a  fair  and  honest  report  ?  Do  ye  mean 
to  tell  me  there  will  be  anything  but  jibes  and  jeers  and  gross 
misrepresentations  ?  And  you,  a  laddie  just  out  o'  school,  to 
make  fun  o'  men  o'  mature  years,  who  have  pondered  over 
the  course  of  the  world's  ways,  and  learned  the  lessons  of  life 
from  A,  B,  C,  to  X,  Y,  Z !  That  is  a  nice  work  to  undertake ! 
Fathers  of  families,  with  the  work  o'  the  day  over,  and  maybe 


NEIGHBORS.  •  151 

glad  to  get  away  for  an  hour  from  a  scolding  wife,  and  doing 
their  best  for  their  country  in  talking  over  public  aifaii-s, 
and  enjoying  a  quiet  glass  in  warmth  and  security — and  to 
have  this  Mephistopheles  there  wi'  his  note-book — " 

"If  you  were  to  come  with  me  for  a  night  or  two,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  "  you  might  make  a  few  sketches.  There  are  some 
splendid  heads — of  the  regular  old  John  Bull  type,  with  a 
church-warden  added.  Then  we  could  make  a  book  of  the 
reprinted  articles,  with  your  sketches  of  the  people." 

His  companion  glanced  at  him. 

"Your  brain  is  quick,  laddie,  for  new  projects." 

"But  that's  what  they  come  to,"  said  Master  Willie,  indi- 
cating, somewhat  sadly,  his  open  desk.  "  They  are  all  nicely 
tied  up  there,  in  wrappers,  and  addressed  to  myself." 

"There's  a  mine  o'  wealth  in  that  desk,  man,"  said  Ross, 
sharply.  "When  I  am  an  Academeecian,  and  you  ai'e  the  ed- 
itor of  a  daily  newspaper,  we'll  both  find  out  the  value  o'  they 
sketches,  in  that  desk  there,  and  in  my  studio  below.  Have  I 
no  told  ye  that  already  until  I'm  tired  ?  Ye  are  in  too  great 
a  hurry,  man.  Some  day  ye'll  be  glad  enough  to  get  hold  o' 
these  ideas  that  ye  are  flinging  about  the  now." 

"Some  day  ?"  echoed  Fitzgerald.    "But  in  the  mean  time  ?" 

"In  the  mean  time," said  he,  rising  and  putting  on  his  big 
cloak  and  his  cajD,  "I'm  going  down  below  to  my  bed.  And 
in  the  mean  time  begin  your  Teniers  sketches,  and  good  luck 
to  ye ;  and  dinna  fash  yourself  about  what's  before  ye,  so  long 
as  ye've  meat,  drink,  and  clothes;  and  if  there's  a  young  lass 
in  the  case,  as  I  jalouse,  tell  her  no  to  drive  any  man's  cattle, 
but  wait  and  give  the  world  its  ain  time  to  turn.  Good-night, 
laddie,"  he  said,  as  he  opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  "I'm 
glad  there's  no  moor  to  cross  on  a  night  like  this." 


152  •  SHANDON   BELLS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TWO   LETTERS. 
"To    MY  TRUSTY    AND  WELL  -  BELOVED   COULIN,  THESE,— It 

is  quite  true,  my  dear  Willie,  that  my  lettei'S  to  you  have 
been  very  short  lately ;  but  you  have  no  idea  how  I  have  been 
bothered  and  worried  in  coming  to  terms  about  that  other  tour 
in  the  South,  and  then  I  have  had  to  try  and  pacify  papa.  He 
has  taken  it  into  his  head  that  he  ought  to  know  more  about 
you,  and  our  '  jjrospects.'  Isn't  that  a  horrid  word  ?  It  is  like 
'matrimony,'  or  'nuptial  settlements,'  or  something  in  a  law- 
yer's office.  I  tell  him  that  we  are  not  going  to  do  anything 
rash ;  that  I  for  one  am  quite  content  to  be  as  I  am ;  and  when 
he  writes  long  letters  about  the  importance  of  being  settled  in 
life,  and  the  possibility  of  his  not  being  long  in  the  world, 
what  can  I  do  but  gently  remind  him  that  I  have  earned  my 
own  living  for  a  good  many  years,  and  have  no  great  fear 
of  being  unable  to  do  so  ?  Poor  dear  papa,  he  is  very  kind, 
but  he  worries  dreadfully.  And  really  I  don't  know  what  to 
say  to  him.  If  yovi  were  still  the  sub-editor  of  that  poor  de- 
funct magazine,  that  would  be  something  definite.  Shall  I  tell 
him  you  are  private  secretary  to  a  great  lady  ?  Of  course  I 
too  wish  you  had  something  more  settled ;  but  do  not  imagine, 
dear  Willie,  that  I  am  grumbling ;  for,  after  all,  are  we  not  just 
as  well  off  in  every  respect  as  we  were  before  we  ever  saw  each 
other,  and  why  should  we  not  be  quite  content  with  things  as 
they  are  ?  I  hate  writing  like  this.  It  is  like  drawing  out  a 
marriage  contract.  If  you  were  here  just  for  two  minutes — I 
can  imagine  your  coming  in  at  the  door  over  there,  and  look- 
ing round  to  see  that  Miss  Patience  was  not  in  the  room — we 
should  understand  each  other  at  once.  And  if  you  were  at 
the  open  door  now,  do  you  think  I  would  be  long  at  this  table  ? 
Don't  you  think  I  might  meet  you  half-way,  even  if  the  ink- 
bottle  were  to  be  sent  spinning  across  the  floor  ?  And  you  to 
talk  of  the  coldness  of  my  letters ! 

"Besides  all  that  worry  I  have  been  hard  at  work  with 


TWO  LETTERS.  153 

Professor ;  and  fancy  the  difficulty  of  doing  that  by  cor- 
respondence !  He  sets  me  the  most  terrible  tasks ;  and  as  it  is 
all  science  and  no  sound,  it  is  not  very  lively.  But  i-eally  when 
you  look  at  some  of  the  songs  that  are  most  popular  now  in 
di'awing-rooms — the  air  some  common  phrase,  or  perhaps  bor- 
rowed, and  of  course  changing  to  minor  in  the  second  part, 
and  the  accompaniment  a  few  simple  chords,  only  fit  for  chil- 
dren's practicing — it  seems  jiossible  for  one  to  do  something  a 
little  better.  And  then  shouldn't  I  like  to  be  able  to  set  one  of 
your  songs  to  music — I  mean  something  like  proper  music ;  I 
think  I  should  not  grumble  over  studying  the  counterpoint 
of  that  accompaniment.  Do  you  think  I  would  charge  my 
Coulin  a  heavy  royalty  for  singing  that  song  ?  There,  now : 
why  don't  you  gentlemen  of  the  press  set  to  work  and  crush 
that  royalty  system  ?  It  is  most  mischievous ;  and  the  very 
best  singers  are  giving  in  to  it  now,  and  of  course  the  great- 
er stupid  the  composer  is,  the  more  eager  is  he  to  make  the 
royalty  on  the  sales  big.  Then  the  public  are  stupid,  and  don't 
remember  that  a  good  singer  can  make  even  the  singing  of 
scales  pathetic  ;  and  any  kind  of  song  sounds  as  if  it  were  fine 
if  a  good  singer  takes  trouble  with  it.  But  you  are  not  inter- 
ested. I  can  see  you  are  very  nearly  throwing  my  poor  let- 
ter in  the  fire.  But  supposing  that  I  put  it  this  way,  that  A 
(this  sounds  like  the  Professor,  but  I'm  not  going  to  teach  you 
harmony),  who  can  sing  a  little,  marries  B,  who  is  very  fond 
of  singing  and  music  generally.  Then  they  grow  older ;  or  A's 
voice  gives  out :  is  there  to  be  no  more  music  ?  On  the  con- 
trary, A  having  been  a  good  little  girl,  and  having  devoted  a 
fearful  amount  of  time  to  the  study  of  music  and  to  practicing, 
can  still  play  B  to  sleep  after  dinner.  More  than  that,  if  they 
get  into  trouble,  can  she  not  give  music  lessons  ?  I  believe 
this  is  a  clear  case  of  Q.  E.  D. :  is  it  not,  Master  Willie  ? 

"But  everything  in  this  letter  is  pure  nonsense,  and  not  to 
be  heeded,  except  the  tremendous  fact  that  in  ten  days  I  shall 
be  in  Cork  again  !  think  of  it ! — the  very  same  rooms,  too ;  and 
the  same  old  piano ;  and  the  same  little  iron  gate  outside,  which 
used  to  give  such  a  queer  rusty  growl  and  squeak  as  a  sort  of 
friendly  good-night  to  Master  Willie,  and  a  hint  to  come  early 
the  next  morning,  if  there  were  any  blue-bells  and  campions  to 
be  looked  for  out  in  the  woods.     Alas !  there  will  be  no  blue- 


154  SHANDON  BELLS. 

bells  or  anything  else  now — mud,  I  suppose;  and  I  shall  sit  at 
the  rainy  window,  and  not  stir  out  until  it  is  time  to  go  away 
down  into  the  smoky  town.  There  will  be  nobody  there  now 
to  make  all  the  place  wild  and  romantic ;  and  to  stuff  people's 
heads  full  of  dreams;  and  to  make  a  f)Oor  girl  think  she  never 
saw  anything  so  lovely  as  a  street  in  Cork  when  it  was  pour- 
ing wet — and  the  rain  from  the  umbrella  all  the  time  running 
down  her  left  shoulder  and  arm,  because  her  companion  was 
so  careless.  And  there  won't  be  anybody  to  say  nice  things 
about  her  in  the  Cork  Chronicle ;  or  to  walk  home  with  her 
up  the  steep  hill ;  or  to  stop  and  talk  just  for  a  minute  or  a 
half-hour  or  so  at  the  little  gate.  And  what  is  Inisheen  like 
now  ? — I  suppose  the  sea  dashing  all  over  the  shore;  the  villas 
shut  up;  the  town  a  puddle.  Sure  'tis  not  to  Inisheen  that 
I'm  going.  The  only  comfort  would  be  that  the  ghosts  and 
pixies  of  the  neighbox'hood  would  have  gone.  What  do  the 
fairies  do  when  it  is  wet  ?  It  must  be  most  uncomfortable  up 
in  that  glen,  with  all  the  branches  dripping,  and  no  leaves  on 
the  trees,  and  everything  damp  and  cold  and  miserable.  I 
never  heard  of  fairies  in  winter. 

' '  But  about  Inisheen,  dear  Willie,  seriously.  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  know  a  little  more  clearly  about  that  promise  you 
made  me  give  you.  I  have  heard  that  in  Scotland  if  two  i)eo- 
ple  only  say  before  other  people  that  they  are  man  and  wife, 
that  is  enough,  and  they  are  married.  I  have  never  been  to 
Scotland,  and  I  don't  know;  but  I  should  think  people  might 
be  too  quick  and  then  repent.  I  want  to  know  if  the  promise 
we  made  that  night  (wasn't  it  a  beautiful  night,  too  ?)  is  any- 
thing more  than  a  promise.  I  have  been  wondering  whether 
it  might  be  the  way  young  people  used  to  get  married  when 
their  parents  were  against  it,  or  the  priests  perhaps.  Situated 
as  we  are,  sometimes  I  think  it  was  scarcely  wise  to  bind  our- 
selves like  that ;  and  then  again  I  say,  '  Bother  these  doubts 

and  troubles ;  it's  all  because  Professor 's  conundrums  are 

too  difficult. '  And  I  am  not  going  to  bother  you  with  them, 
dear  Willie;  for  you  must  have  enough  to  think  of;  and  I 
meant  this  to  be  the  longest  and  kindest  letter  ever  wi'itten, 
after  what  you  said  about  my  not  caring.  I  do  care.  You 
have  no  right  to  say  that  I  don't— and  if  you  were  here  I  u'ould 
prove  it,  even  to  your  satisfaction.     There,  now!    So  don't 


TWO  LETTERS.  155 

say  an  other  word  about  not  caring ;  but  winte  me  a  long,  nice, 
pleasant  letter,  professing  yourself  quite  contented  with  every- 
thing that  Providence  and  I  have  done  for  you,  and  telling  me 
all  the  news  of  v^hat  you  are  doing,  and  how  you  occupy  your 
time,  and  whether  you  ever  think  of  poor  banished  me.  You 
are  very  ungi-ateful;  you  have  not  the  slightest  notion  of  how 
good  I  am  to  you — to  be  sitting  up  wi'iting  to  you  like  this, 
when  every  sensible  ci'eature  in  Belfast  is  in  bed.  The  fire 
has  gone  out;  and  the  room  is  dreadfully  cold;  yet  here  am 
I  writing  away  with  stiff  fingers,  and  the  difficulty  is  to  know 
how  to  stop.  For  I  do  want  you  to  believe  that  I  did  not  mean 
my  letters  to  be  cold.  I  think  it  was  the  weather  that  got  into 
them ;  and  if  you  w^ait  till  a  thaw  comes,  and  read  them  over 
again,  you  will  find  them  quite  different.  This  is  all  at  present 
from  your  loving  Kitty. 

"P.S. — Miss  Patience  is  very  kind  to  me  just  now.  She 
wrote  a  letter  (which  she  showed  me)  to  the  Northern  Whig 
here,  the  other  day,  about  the  numbers  of  beggars  in  the  streets ; 
and,  as  sure  as  ever  was,  the  very  next  morning  there  was 
an  article  in  the  newspaper  beginning:  'From  the  number 
of  letters  which  we  receive  complaining  of  the  i^revalence  of 
mendicity  in  this  town,'  etc.  Oh,  my!  At  first  she  was  so 
lofty  she  would  scarcely  speak  to  me,  for  she  considers  me  a 
frivolous  kind  of  creature,  but  afterward  she  grew  more  gra- 
cious, and  has  been  quite  compassionately  kind  to  me  ever 
since.  Last  night  she  made  me  wear  her  gloves  on  the  way 
home,  for  I  had  forgotten  mine,  and  it  ivas  cold.  She  even 
said  that  your  verses  in  Chambers's  Journal,  which  I  showed 
her,  were  written  with  much  taste,  though  she  added  that  she 
thought  this  was  scarcely  a  time  for  writing  poetry,  consider- 
ing the  serious  state  of  public  affairs.  Never  mind,  Willie, 
there  is  one  person  at  least  who  knoAvs  better  than  that;  and 
you  need  not  be  afraid  that  she  does  not  appreciate  your  po- 
etry, as  the  world  will  some  day. 

"Good-night,  good-night.  K." 

Many  and  many  a  time  did  Master  Willie  read  over  this  let- 
ter, wondering  to  which  to  attach  the  more  importance — the 
obvious  outward  cheerfulness,  or  the  curious  half-suggested 


156  "  SHANDON  BELLS. 

little  admissions  of  trouble  and  doubt.  He  was  so  anxious  that 
Kitty  should  not  be  anxious!  And  it  was  hard  on  Kitty  to 
be  away  in  those  towns,  practically  alone — for  that  fool  of  a 
creature  who  was  supposed  to  be  her  companion  apparently 
lived  only  for  the  pestering  of  editors — and  not  hearing  very 
definite  news  of  her  lover's  success.  The  space  that  separated 
them  seemed  great  enough ;  but  it  was  the  thought  of  the  time 
that  might  separate  them  that  he  was  afraid  would  weigh 
on  Kitty's  spirits.  And  so,  in  answering  her,  he  resolved  to 
take  no  notice  of  these  involuntary  backslidings  of  hers,  but 
to  assume  that  she  still  had  the  hope  and  high  courage  that 
possessed  her  when  he  and  she  pax'ted  at  Inisheen. 

"  My  darling  Kitty,"  he  wrote, — "You  are  all  wrong  about 
Inisheen.  It  is  far  more  beautiful  now  than  in  the  summer; 
this  is  the  time  it  is  worth  living  in — not  when  idle  and  fash- 
ionable young  ladies  come  down  to  the  little  villas  and  show 
off  their  finery  along  the  sands,  neglecting  their  music,  and 
becoming  impertinent  to  their  companions.  You  should  see 
the  real  Inisheen  when  the  frosty  sun  shines  red  through  the 
thin  fog ;  and  you  get  a  touch  of  the  red  on  the  shallow  wa- 
ters of  the  harbor;  and  the  heavy  craft  are  lying  high  and 
dry  on  the  yellow  mud.  Just  now,  my  dear  Kitty,  you  would 
find  the  sun  setting  behind  the  sea,  not  away  up  behind  the 
land,  and  the  cliffs  looking  splendid.  Then  at  night — think  of 
the  moon  on  the  frost-hardened  moor,  with  the  ice  ponds  quite 
silvery  here  and  there :  that  is  the  time  for  the  duck,  I  can  tell 
you.  You  think  the  people  ai'e  depressed  now  ?  Why,  this  is 
the  sociable  time  of  the  year ;  when  you  come  home  stiff  with 
cold  to  a  blazing  fire  and  a  warm  room;  and  then  you  get 
your  dinner  over,  and  people  come  in,  and  you  have  the  whis- 
key put  on  the  table  (that's  for  you.  Miss  Kitty,  not  for  me), 
and  the  kettle  steaming  on  the  fii^e,  and  then  the  jokes  and 
stories  begin.  Then  you  want  to  Icnow  where  the  fairies  go 
to  in  the  winter  ?  I  can  tell  you  all  about  that.  Mind  you, 
the  glen  you  speak  of  is  quite  lovely  just  now,  with  red  berries 
and  dark  green  bramble  stems  and  lots  of  color  you  don't  find 
at  all  in  the  monotonous  summer  green ;  but  that  does  not  mat- 
ter; for  I  confess  that  the  fairies  at  this  time  do  spend  the  most 
of  their  time  feasting  and  singing  and  dancing  in  the  great 


TWO  LETTERS.  157 

halls  within  the  mountains,  though  they  have  scouts  sent  out 
from  time  to  time  to  see  what  is  going  on.  There  was  a  great 
banquet  given  by  Don  Fierna  on  the  night  of  Tuesday  last  in 
the  hall  that  comes  nearest  to  the  hill-side  above  the  well  that 
you  know.  It  was  a  very  splendid  affair;  the  vast  cavern 
was  all  lit  up  by  millions  of  glow-worms  placed  along  the  rocks ; 
but  besides  that  there  were  innumerable  will-o'-the-wisps  mov- 
ing through  the  air,  so  that  you  could  see  all  the  colors  of  the 
various  costumes  quite  well,  although  most  of  the  light  fell 
on  the  long  banquet  board,  and  that,  again,  lit  up  the  smiling 
faces  of  the  ladies  and  their  knights.  At  the  head  of  the  long 
table  Don  Fierna  sat  in  state;  a  terrible,  huge  person  neai-ly 
two  feet  in  height,  with  a  prodigious  black  mustache  and  heavy 
eyebrows;  he  wore  a  Spanish  hat  of  black  velvet,  a  scarlet 
cloak,  and  on  his  breast  hung  his  thick  gold  chain  of  office, 
all  glittering  with  precious  stones.  On  his  right  sat  the  boy- 
king  of  the  fairies  (who  is  his  heir-apparent),  but  he  was  a  very 
beautiful  little  king,  with  large  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair,  and 
he  wore  a  cloak  of  purple  velvet  clasped  at  the  neck  with  gold, 
and  also  a  crown  of  pure  gold  starred  with  sapphires.  Opposite 
him — that  is,  on  Don  Fierna's  left — sat  the  boy-king's  bride; 
she  was  more  like  a  fairy  than  any  of  them,  she  was  so  slight 
and  fair  and  delicate;  and  she  wore  a  cloak  of  cream- white 
velvet,  which  had  a  scarlet  flower  where  that  was  clasped,  and 
her  crown  was  not  of  gold,  but  of  pure  silver,  with  scarlet  ber- 
ries set  into  it.  The  other  knights  and  ladies  were  in  all  sorts 
of  different  costumes  and  colors;  and  so  were  the  servitors, 
who  were  hurrying  this  way  and  that  with  the  materials  of  the 
feast.  Oh,  did  I  tell  you  that  in  the  distance  you  could  hear 
nightingales  ?  For  tliis  is  where  the  nightingales  retire  to  in 
the  winter;  but  they  would  be  too  noisy;  so  they  are  shut  up 
in  an  adjoining  cave,  and  you  can  only  hear  their  singing  like 
a  sort  of  continuous  water-fall.  Well,  you  know,  Kitty,  I  need 
not  tell  you  all  the  things  they  had  at  the  banquet;  for  the 
menu  was  rather  long;  only  this,  that  the  wine  they  drank  was 
made  of  the  honey  that  you  get  in  the  heads  of  pink  clover, 
and  that  whereas  the  lords  and  the  ladies  drank  out  of  acorn 
cups,  Don  Fierna's  flagon  consisted  of  the  shell  of  a  plover's 
egg  set  in  a  handle  of  bog-oak.  Well,  when  they  had  got 
down  to  the  end  of  the  list,  Don  Fierna  rose ;  and  the  moment 


158  SHANDON  BELLS. 

they  saw  him  rise,  each  lord  and  lady  struck  a  small  silver 
gong  in  front  of  them,  so  that  instantly  there  was  a  sort  of 
soft  tinkling  music  rising  from  the  whole  table  and  filling  the 
cave ;  and  tliis  immediately  hushed  the  servitore  to  silence. 

"  'Your  Majesties,  my  noble  loi'ds  and  graciovis  ladies,'  said 
Don  Fierna,  '  before  we  proceed  to  the  dance,  I  have  a  ques- 
tion to  ask.  What  is  the  name  of  the  mortal  who  was  last 
at  the  Well  of  Vows  V 

"All  the  eyes  of  the  assemblage  were  now  turned  to  the 
lower  end  of  the  cavern,  where,  near  the  immense  gate,  and 
half  hidden  in  the  dusk,  was  a  rather  tall,  soldier-looking  fairy, 
dressed  entirely  in  blue,  with  a  blue  feather  in  his  cap,  and  a 
long  silver  sword  by  his  side. 

"  '  Catherine,  my  liege,'  he  said.  (It's  a  curious  fact,  Kitty, 
but  the  fairies  always  call  mortals  by  their  Christian  names.  I 
don't  know  why  it  is;  perhaps  it  is  in  imitation  of  the  Church; 
or  perhaps  they  found  that  human  beings  were  always  chan- 
ging their  surname.) 

"'Say,  where  is  this  Catherine?'  Don  Fierna  continued, 
and  you  could  hear  his  voice  through  the  whole  place,  though 
he  did  not  speak  so  loudly  either.  But  everybody  was  listen- 
ing intently. 

"  '  In  the  North,  my  liege.  It  is  understood  she  is  coming 
to  your  Highness's  city  of  Cork.' 

' '  '  She  has  been  observed  ?' 

"  '  Assui'edly,  my  liege.' 

"  'She  remains  faithful  to  her  vow  V 

' '  At  this  all  the  ladies  lowered  then'  eyes,  and  looked  at 
each  other,  wondering. 

"  'Slie  does,  my  liege.' 

' '  The  words  were  pronounced  with  emphasis ;  and  no  soon- 
er were  they  heard  than  the  whole  assemblage  once  more 
struck  the  little  silver  gongs,  and  it  was  as  if  the  hollows  of 
the  cavern  overhead  were  all  filled  with  the  singing  of  birds. 

' ' '  Your  Majesties,  my  lords  and  ladies, '  said  Don  Fierna,  '  we 
may  dispatch  this  piece  of  business  before  the  revels  begin. 
This  faithful  one  must  be  rewarded.  When  she  comes  to  our 
royal  city  of  Cork,  you  will  assure  to  her  sweet  sleep,  sweet 
dreams.  You  will  instruct  your  attendants.  You  will  banish 
from  her  idle  fears ;  you  will  guard  her  from  the  i)hantoms  of 


TWO  LETTERS.  15&^ 

the  niglit :  the  dark  and  sleej)  shall  be  as  sweet  to  her  as  the 
day.' 

"With  that  all  down  the  table  thei'e  was  a  continuous  '  Yes,' 
'Yes,'  '  Yes,'  so  that  the  sound  was  just  like  the  wind  in  sum- 
mer stirring  through  the  beech-trees.  Don  Fierua  then  gave 
his  hand  to  the  young  queen  in  white  velvet ;  and  the  king  her 
sweetheart  turned  to  the  noble  dame  who  was  next  him ;  and  so 
the  whole  company  went  away  two  and  two  down  the  great 
hall  (but  leaving  enough  space  between  the  couples  for  the 
ladies'  trains  to  be  fairly  seen).  And  then,  when  the  lords  and 
ladies  had  disappeared  into  the  ball-room,  the  servitors,  in  their 
green  jackets  and  gray  hose,  forthwith  jumped  into  the  chairs 
of  their  masters  and  mistresses;  and  there  was  such  a  noise  of 
laughing  and  feasting  that  the  very  nightingales  could  no 
longer  make  themselves  heard. 

"And  so  you  see,  my  dear  Kitty,  that  so  far  from  having 
anything  to  fear  from  Don  Fierna  and  the  fairies  and  the  elves 
of  Inisheen,  they  really  have  you  under  their  protection ;  and 
it  is  not  the  least  use  your  worrying  about  what  you  promised 
at  the  well,  and  imagining  dark  things,  for,  indeed,  promise 
or  no  promise,  the  result  will  be  quite  the  same.  Only,  it  seems 
to  me,  it  would  be  base  ingratitude  on  our  part  for  all  the  kind- 
ness of  the  invisible  world  of  Don  Fierna  if  we  were  not  to 
make  that  pilgrimage.  And  only  once  in  seven  years,  too! 
Dear  Kitty,  think  what  a  trip  that  will  be !  Of  course,  in  mar- 
ried life,  if  what  every  one  says  is  true,  and  if  we  should  prove 
to  be  only  like  other  people,  one's  views  of  things  must  natur- 
ally get  changed ;  and  no  doubt  the  romance  of  love  may  get  a 
little  tempered  down  by  familiarity  and  custom;  and  you  can 
not  have  such  a  lot  of  things  to  talk  over  as  two  people  who 
only  meet  from  time  to  time,  and  have  all  their  future  to  set- 
tle. But  just  think  what  a  re-opening  of  the  past  that  will  be 
to  us  two :  how  we  shall  seem  to  see  ourselves  again  standing 
there  as  we  were  seven  years  before ;  and  if  we  have  had  our 
quarrels  or  misunderstandings,  surely  that  will  be  the  place  to 
make  everything  up.  My  darling,  don't  look  on  your  pro- 
mise of  that  night  as  something  terrible,  something  to  haunt 
you,  but  rather  as  a  bit  of  romance  added  to  the  facts  of  your 
life — something  that  you  can  recall  in  after-days  with  a  kind  of 
smile,  perhaps,  but  yet  with  a  tender  smile,  and  something  that 


160  SHANDON  BELLS, 

will  remind  you  through  possibly  more  prosaic  j'ears  of  what  you 
and  I  were  thinking  of  once.     Is  not  that  sensible,  Sweet  eyes  ? 

"About  your  father:  you  must  let  him  understand,  my  dar- 
ling, that  I  am  quite  as  anxious  as  he  can  be  that  I  should  have 
something  definite  and  settled;  but  Rome  was  not  built  in  a 
day ;  and  if  you  and  I  are  content  to  wait  for  a  while,  I  sup- 
pose that  is  our  own  business.  Do  you  know,  Kitty,  that  you 
are  very  profuse  in  your  assurances  that  you  are  content  with 
things  as  they  are  ?  I  am  not ;  not  at  all.  I  try  to  imagine 
what  our  life  will  be  when  we  are  together;  and  of  course  that 
makes  me  very  impatient  when  I  find  another  stumbling-block 
in  my  way.  However,  there  is  no  reason  for  grumbling. 
Plenty  of  people  have  come  to  London  to  try  to  earn  a  living, 
and  been  worse  served  than  I  have  been.  I  have  one  hundred 
pounds  a  year  certain ;  I  have  nearly  all  my  time  my  own ;  ,and 
I  am  writing  so  much,  and  offering  it  in  so  many  quarters,  that 
I  must  in  time  find  out  what  the  newspapei'S  and  magazines 
would  wish  to  have,  or  what  it  is  they  object  to.  Mind  you,  I 
have  my  own  ideals,  and  when  the  chance  serves,  I  work  at 
them ;  but  in  this  absolute  fight  for  life  I  have  got  to  make  just 
such  bricks  as  the  builder  will  buy.  Some  day,  Kitty — when 
you  and  I  can  plan  things  together — after  the  fight  is  over,  and 
we  have  won  the  fortress,  then  I  shall  be  able  to  work  in  my 
own  way,  careless  of  everybody,  and  who  knows  but  that  one 
might  then  '  strike  for  honest  fame'  ?  I  shall  look  in  your  eyes ; 
the  old  days  at  Inisheen  will  come  back :  that  will  be  inspira- 
tion enough. 

"In  the  mean  time,  dear  Kitty,  if  I  can't  tell  you  of  anything 
definite  and  settled  as  regards  my  literary  work,  this  at  least 
will  please  you.  I  have  been  thinking  over  a  series  of  papers 
describing  the  nonsense  that  is  talked  about  politics  and  polit- 
ical men  in  tavern  i^arlors  and  the  like — some  of  it  being  ex- 
quisitely absurd,  and  I  wrote  one  paper,  and  sent  it  to  the  Hyde 
Park  Journal.  To  my  astonishment  (and  a  little  bit  of  de- 
light), it  appears  in  this  evening's  edition;  and  I  send  you  a 
copy,  though  it  won't  interest  you  much.  Now  the  Hyde  Park 
is  a  very  good  paper,  and  if  they  will  only  continue  the  series, 
it  will  be  an  excellent  thing  for  me,  for  the  varieties  of  human 
folly,  especially  public-house-politics  folly,  are  endless.  So 
you  see  things  are  not  so  bad ;  and  you  are  a  good  girl  to  be 


A  SYMPOSIUM.  161 

working  so  hard — so  good  that  I  am  not  going  to  talk  any  more 
to  you  about  wretched  newsimpers  and  my  scribbling,  and 
hopes  and  disappointments.  Don't  forget  that  I  love  you.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  hear  of  your  being  in  Cork,  for  then  Don 
Fierna  will  have  his  little  scouts  looking  after  you  and  protect- 
ing you.     Do  not  forget  that  I  love  you." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  SYMPOSIUM. 

But  if  Fitzgerald's  efforts  to  obtain  a  footing  in  literature 
had  so  far  been  productive  mostly  of  disappointment,  he  was 
vei*y  clearly  succeeding  in  another  direction.  Mrs.  Chetwynd 
made  no  secret  of  her  interest  in,  and  wish  to  befriend,  this 
young  man,  who  seemed  to  her  to  resemble  in  many  ways  the 
nephew  whom  she  had  lost;  and  the  good  old  lady,  with  much 
tact  and  delicacy,  hinted  that  he  himself  might  make  the  sugges- 
tion when  any  opportunity  offered.  It  is  not  improbable  that 
if  Fitzgerald  had  asked  her  for  funds  wherewith  to  start  another 
magazine,  she  would  have  consented ;  but  he  had  had  enough 
of  such  experiments. 

In  the  mean  time  he  strove  to  make  his  duties  as  little  of  a 
sinecure  as  was  possible.  To  his  own  great  delight  he  had  ab- 
solute carte  blanche  as  regarded  the  ordering  of  new  books  or 
reviews;  and  he  diligently  read  the  one,  and  glanced  over  the 
other,  so  as  to  let  his  patroness  know  what  was  going  on.  But 
when  it  actually  came  to  the  imparting  of  this  information,  the 
chances  were  that  the  little  old  lady  would  begin  by  asking 
him  something  about  his  own  affairs,  and  that  not  unfrequent- 
ly  led  to  a  mere  gossip  about  the  south  of  Ireland.  Once  or 
twice,  indeed,  she  inadvertently  called  him  "  Frank" ;  and  then 
apologized  for  the  mistake,  with  a  quiet  tear  or  two.  On  an- 
other occasion,  when  he  was  about  to  leave,  she  happened  to 
hear  the  rain  beating  heavily  against  the  window. 

"Oh,  but  you  must  not  go  out  in  such  a  shower,  Mr.  Fitz- 
gerald, "she  said.  "Or  you  might  ask  Saunders  to  get  you  a 
water-proof." 

Indeed,  she  herself  rang,  and — with  a  little  hesitation,  which 


162  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Fitzgerald  understood  perfectly — told  the  man  where  he  wonld 
find  the  coat.  Fitzgerald  thanked  her,  of  cour.se,  and  went 
out,  and  down  into  the  hall.  But  something,  he  scarcely  knew 
what,  forbade  his  making  use  of  this  water-proof. 

' '  Whose  is  it  ?"  he  said  to  the  footman  who  brought  it  to  him. 
"It  was  Mr.  Frank's,  sir." 
He  had  guessed  as  much. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  he  said,  rather  absently.  " I  don't  think 
I  shall  need  it.     I  have  not  very  far  to  go." 

But  if  Fitzgerald  was  slow  to  avail  himself,  on  his  own  ac- 
count, of  those  hinted  offers  which  the  kind  old  lady  had  made 
him,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  do  something  for  his  friend 
John  Ross.  Mrs.  Chetwynd  had  heai-d  a  good  deal  about  the 
Scotch  artist  in  Fitzgerald's  description  of  their  conjoint  occu- 
pations and  country  walks;  and  at  last  she  said  she  would 
like  to  see  some  of  his  work. 

"I  do  not  promise  to  buy  any ,"  said- she,  with  her  pleasant 
smile,  "for  there  is  scarcely  any  place  we  could  put  them." 

Indeed,  the  house  was  pretty  well  filled  with  the  ordinary 
pictorial  adornments  of  an  English  dwelling — little  pieces  of 
Dutch  genre  in  heavy  old-fashioned  frames;  gloomy  land- 
scapes a  long  way  after  Salvator  Rosa;  one  or  two  imitations 
of  Wilkie ;  and  a  large  number  of  historical  engravings,  glo- 
rious in  incident,  but  less  satisfactory  in  draughtsmanship. 

"Besides,  "added  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  "Mary  would  accuse  me  of 
extravagance,  so  long  as  I  disapprove  of  her  spending  her  mon- 
ey on  a  nine-and-a-half -inch  telescope." 

"A  nine -and-a-half- inch  telescope  ?"  said  Fitzgei'ald,  in 
surprise — for  he  had  understood  that  Miss  Chetwynd  was  a 
young  lady  of  considerable  fortune.  "Surely  that  can  not 
amount  to  much  ?" 

"  So  I  thought,"  said  the  old  lady,  laughing,  "when  I  heard 
of  it  at  first.  But  it  appears  that  the  nine  and  a  half  inches 
refer  to  the  diameter  of  the  glass;  and  I  am  told  the  thing 
looks  more  like  a  thirty-two  pounder.  And  then  she  sjiends 
so  much  of  her  money  on  these  poor  people  of  hers !  Well, 
it  is  her  own,  poor  thing.  I  think  I  must  let  her  have  her 
way.  She  shall  have  the  window  in  her  room  altered,  and  she 
shall  have  her  thii-ty-two  pounder;  and  then  I  will  buy  some 
of  your  friend's  pictures." 


A  SYMPOSIUM.  163 

"  Oh,  but  I  could  not  have  you  buy  them  on  my  recommend- 
ation," said  Fitzgerald,  in  some  alarm.  "That  would  never 
do.  You  must  have  some  skilled  advice — I  don't  know  enough 
about  pictures — " 

' '  But,  according  to  your  account,  they  are  just  the  very  paint- 
ings to  suit  a  blind  old  woman,"  she  said,  brightly.  "I  shall 
see  nothing  of  them  but  their  color,  which  you  say  is  so  good — " 

"But — but  I  would  ask  you  to  have  some  one  else's  judg- 
ment, Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  said  he,  earnestly.  "  Of  course  I  think 
them  good ;  I  don't  see  how  the  work  of  a  man  who  studies 
as  hard  as  he  does,  and  who  can  talk  so  ably  about  it,  can  be 
anything  else.  But  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  bring  up  a  few 
of  his  sketches ;  and  you  might  ask  some  one  who  is  a  good 
judge—" 

"As  for  that,  there  will  be  no  difficulty,"  she  said,  promptly. 
"We  know  several  of  the  Academicians.  It  is  not  unusual 
for  one  or  other  of  them  to  dro^i  in  to  dinner  and  have  a 
chat  with  the  scientiflcs." 

"Academicians?"  said  Fitzgerald,  uneasily.  "Not  very 
old  ones  ?" 

She  named  one  or  two. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  gladly,  "any  one  of  these  would  do.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  them." 

But  this  conversation  had  results  for  himself  as  well  as  for 
his  friend.  Fitzgerald  was  in  the  habit  of  leaving  a  minute 
or  two  before  a  quarter  to  seven,  which  was  the  hour  for  Mrs. 
Chetwynd's  table  d'hote,  as  she  called  it;  and  even  then  he 
sometimes  encountered  in  the  hall  a  guest  who  had  strolled  in 
before  the  proper  time.  But  this  talk  about  Ross's  pictures 
had  made  him  forgetful ;  and  he  was  just  about  to  ask  his  pa- 
troness some  further  question  as  to  what  kind  of  landscape  she 
preferred,  when  a  gong  sounded  below. 

" Goodness  gracious  me  !"  exclaimed  the  old  lady.  "There 
is  dinner,  and  Mary  has  not  come  back  from  South  Kensington. 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  will  you  kindly  give  me  your  arm  down-stairs 
— I  am  so  blind  now ;  and  the  people  will  be  coming  in,  and 
nobody  to  receive  them !" 

But  at  this  very  moment  Miss  Chetwynd  made  her  appear- 
ance— a  trifle  breathless,  for  she  had  run  upstairs. 

"Come  away,  auntie,"  she  said,  cheerfully,  as  she  hastily 


1G4  SHANDON   BELLS. 

took  off  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  tlirew  them  on  a  chair. 
"But  why  don't  you  ever  persuade  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  stay  to 
dinner  ?     I  know  he  dislikes  scientific  people — " 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  this  invitation  was  warmly  second- 
ed ;  and  Fitzgerald,  who  was  quite  aware  of  the  informal  na- 
ture of  this  nightly  table  d'hote,  and  who,  perhaps,  had  some 
little  curiosity  to  see  in  the  flesh  one  or  other  of  the  celebrated 
people  that  Mrs.  Chetwynd  talked  so  much  about,  very  grateful- 
ly and  modestly  accepted.  He  did  not  even  make  a  pretense 
of  refusing.  Mary  Chetwynd's  proposal  had  been  made  so  sim- 
ply and  frankly  that  he  met  it  with  equal  frankness.  He  walk- 
ed into  the  dining-room  after  the  two  ladies,  with  much  calm- 
ness ;  and  this  tiine  he  had  nothing  to  fear  about  evening  dress. 

There  were  three  gentlemen  in  the  room.  One  was  away  in 
a  corner,  examining,  through  a  double  eyeglass  that  he  held 
in  his  hand,  one  of  the  engravings  on  the  walls ;  the  other  two 
were  standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  their  backs  to  the  fire.  The 
taller  of  these  was  a  long,  thin,  cadaverous  man,  who  stooped  a 
little;  he  had  piercing  gray  eyes  under  shaggy  eyebrows;  and 
very  white  teeth,  which  showed  Avhen  he  laughed  his  prodi- 
gious laugh ;  him  Fitzgerald  recognized  at  once,  having  seen 
his  photograph  often  enough,  as  a  Dr.  Bude.  The  other  he 
did  not  know ;  but  he  thought  it  very  cool  of  both  these  gen- 
tlemen to  take  the  entrance  of  the  two  ladies  with  so  much  in- 
difference. They  finished  what  they  had  been  talking,  or 
rather  laughing,  about;  then  they  came  forward  and  shook 
hands ;  and  then  sat  down  as  it  pleased  them  at  the  table.  But 
this  indifference  was  unintentional;  for  very  soon,  when  some 
other  guests  had  come  in,  and  everybody  had  sat  down,  and 
dinner  had  begun,  it  was  very  clear  that  Dr.  Bude  was  amongst 
the  foremost  to  amuse  and  entertain  his  hostess.  And  it  must 
be  confessed  that  there  was  very  little  science  talked  amongst 
this  nondescript  gathering  of  friends  and  acquaintances.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  joking,  it  is  true,  when  it  became  known 
that  Mary  Chetwynd  was  to  be  allowed  to  have  her  big  tel- 
escope; but  for  the  most  part  the  talk  was  all  about  public 
characters,  and  what  So-and-so  had  said,  and  where  So-and-so 
was  staying.  These  scientific  gentlemen  seemed  to  know  a 
good  deal  about  the  comparative  merits  of  certain  country 
houses  as  places  of  temporary  lodgment ;  and  their  talk  about 


■:  i 


A  SYMPOSIUM.  167 

fish-ponds,  and  cooking,  and  tlie  advantages  of  having  a  well- 
heated  hall  in  the  middle  of  a  house,  was  not  so  very  much 
raised,  after  all,  above  the  level  of  Mr.  Scobell.  Master  Willie 
had  more  than  once  wondered  what  figure  Mr.  Scobell  would 
cut  in  this  familiar  little  assemblage  of  great  people;  but  in- 
deed their  conversation  was  not  of  an  extremely  serious  nature. 

He  sat  next  to  Dr.  Bude;  and  as  Dr.  Bude  was  engaged  in 
describing,  with  tremendous  laughter,  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  a  con- 
versation he  had  had  with  a  gentleman  whom  he  had  met  at 
a  City  dinner,  Fitzgerald  had  plenty  of  leisure  to  study  the 
rest  of  the  guests,  and  also  his  hostess's  niece.  He  had  had 
no  such  opportunity  before.  He  liad  scarcely  ever  seen  Miss 
Chetwynd.  She  was  mostly  engaged  in  the  east  of  London ; 
when  she  was  in  the  house,  she  was  occupied  in  her  own  room. 
And  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  expression  was  a  little 
more  gentle,  less  resolute  and  self-sufficient,  than  he  had  fancied 
it  was.  The  head  was  small  and  beautifully  shaped,  and  she 
wore  her  hair  more  tightly  brushed  than  was  the  fashion  of 
the  time,  so  that  the  symmetry  of  the  head  was  clearly  seen. 
Her  featui*es  were  fine ;  her  complexion  somewhat  pale ;  and 
now  he  saw  that  her  eyes,  which  hitherto  he  had  considered 
to  be  somewhat  cold  in  their  clear,  direct  way  of  looking  at 
one,  were  really  of  a  beautiful  blue,  with  dark  lashes,  and 
could  be  expressive  enough,  whether  she  seemed  interested  in 
what  her  neighbor  was  saying,  or  was  joining  in  some  general 
merriment.  And  when  she  had  to  submit  to  some  raillery 
about  the  forth-comiixg  big  telescope,  she  did  it  very  prettily. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "the  time  will  come  when  j)eople 
will  look  back  on  Lord  Rosse's  telescope  as  a  mere  toy." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  Dr.  Bude,  coming  to  her  rescue. 
"You  are  quite  right.  Miss  Chetwynd.  The  human  race  will 
be  driven  to  invent  not  only  immense  telescopes,  but  also 
means  of  conveying  themselves  to  some  other  planet,  that  is, 
when  this  one  grows  too  cold  for  human  subsistence.  When 
the  earth  cools — and  the  process  is  going  on  now — so  that  hu- 
manity must  flit,  you  may  depend  on  it,  by  that  time  science 
will  have  invented  means  for  their  removal  to  a  more  generous 
climate.  But  there  must  be  a  beginning  in  the  way  of  experi- 
ment. I  appeal  to  Professor  Sims.  The  Royal  Society  should 
do  something." 


168  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Professor  Sims,  who  was  the  shorter  of  the  two  strangers 
whom  Fitzgerald  had  found  standing  before  the  fire,  and  who 
Av^as  a  white-haired,  rosy-faced  old  gentleman,  with  gold  spec- 
tacles, answei'ed  immediately. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  he.  "The  necessity  must  arise. 
And  if  you  look  at  what  science  has  done  within  the  last  ten 
years,  who  is  to  say  what  she  may  not  have  accomplished 
within  the  next — what  shall  I  say  ?" 

"  '  An  eternity  or  two,'  was  Alfred  de  Musset's  phrase,"  sug- 
gested Fitzgerald;  but  it  instantly  occurred  to  him  that  to 
mention  even  the  name  of  a  sentimentalist  like  Alfred  de 
Musset  among  these  hard-headed  people  was  absurd.  How- 
ever, it  did  not  much  matter;  for  presently  they  were  consid- 
ering whether,  when  the  world  had  got  chilled  down  to  the 
condition  of  the  moon,  the  last  traces  of  human  occupation 
would  be  the  Pyramids  or  the  Colosseum.  Some  one  suggest- 
ed the  buried  cities  of  Mexico ;  and  so  the  matter  dropped. 

The  dinner  was  a  plain  one  as  compared  with  the  banquet 
which  Hilton  Clarke  had  given  in  the  Albany ;  and  Fitzgerald 
observed  that  the  majority  of  the  gentlemen  present  drank  no 
wine,  or,  at  most,  a  little  claret  and  water.  Indeed,  the  whole 
of  the  proceedings  were  somewhat  abnormal ;  for,  directly  the 
frugal  repast  was  over,  coffee  and  cigarettes  were  produced,  and 
the  ladies  remained.  Then  one  or  another  of  the  guests  would 
get  up,  and  without  any  formal  apology,  shake  hands  with 
Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  her  niece,  and  say  "  Good-night,"  or  "  Au 
revoir,"  or  perhaps  nothing  at  all,  to  the  others,  and  be  off. 

"I  must  be  off  too  directly,"  said  Dr.  Bude  to  Fitzgerald. 
' '  I  have  some  people  coming  to  look  at  a  few  simple  experi- 
ments with  the  spectroscope;  and  I  must  go  aiid  see  that  my 
battery  is  ready.  Will  you  come  ?  I  can  show  you  a  nine- 
and-a-half-inch  telescope,  since  that  seems  to  interest  you." 

"Oh,  certainly;  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with 
great  eagerness.  This  Dr.  Bude  had  been  very  kind  in  one  or 
two  little  tilings  he  had  said  during  dinner.  He  kneAV  about 
tlie  Household  Magazine.  He  knew  about  Fitzgerald's  pre- 
sent duties.  He  seemed  a  friendly  sort  of  person  ;  and  the  mere 
invitation  was  a  compliment  coming  from  one  so  well  known. 

The  only  doubt  in  Fitzgerald's  mind  was  as  to  the  propriety  of 
his  going  away  while  any  of  the  others  remained.      He  had  no 


A  SYMPOSIUM.  169 

lecture  to  deliver,  nor  any  learned  society  to  attend.  Moreover, 
there  did  not  seem  much  chance  of  his  explaining  the  circum- 
stances to  Mrs.  Chetwynd ;  for  the  pi'etty  old  lady — who  seem- 
ed so  pleased  that  all  these  people  should  drop  in  to  chat  with 
her  for  an  hour — was  listening  intently  to  the  gentleman  on 
her  left;  and  he  was  describing  the  very  remarkable  high  jinks 
he  had  observed  in  a  great  person's  house  immediately  after 
dinner — the  ladies,  indeed,  taking  part  in  them ;  and  he  was 
warmly  defending  these  on  hygienic  principles,  although  hop- 
ing that  nothing  about  them  would  get  into  the  papers,  through 
some  unfortunate  accident  happening.  However,  Dr.  Bude  got 
him  out  of  the  dilemma ;  for  he  rose  and  said  : 

' '  Good-night,  Mrs.  Chetwynd.  I  must  be  off  to  get  my 
things  ready ;  and  I  am  going  to  take  Mr.  Fitzgerald  with  me, 
to  show  him  what  a  nine-and-a-half -inch  telescope  is  like." 

He  went  out  of  the  room  without  saying  good-by  to  any- 
body else,  Fitzgerald  following;  and  the  latter,  in  a  minute 
or  so,  found  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  in  a  private 
hansom — a  vehicle  which  went  so  smoothly  and  so  rapidly  that 
he  seemed  to  be  going  through  the  air  on  wings. 

Dr.  Bude's  house  was  in  the  Brompton  Road — a  rather  shab- 
by-looking building  outside,  but  spacious  within.  Fitzgerald 
followed  his  host  up  to  the  first  floor,  the  back  part  of  which 
consisted  of  an  apartment  that  seemed  partly  an  observatory, 
partly  a  library,  and  j)artly  a  laboratory.  An  assistant  was  at 
the  moment  arranging  some  glass  tubes  and  two  spectroscopes 
on  a  table;  and  Dr.  Bude,  throwing  off  his  coat,  though  the 
dusky  room  was  far  from  being  overwarm,  proceeded  to  test 
the  various  wii'es  and  other  apparatus,  all  of  which  were  a 
profound  mystery  to  his  guest. 

"  I  suppose  you  see  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Chetwynd  ?"  he  said ; 
and  at  the  same  moment  thfe  electric  light  flashed  into  a  tube, 
causing  Fitzgerald's  eyes  to  jump. 

"Oh  no,  very  little; " 

"She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman,"  said  the  other,  with 
decision;  though,  indeed,  he  was  now  on  his  knees  on  the 
floor,  examining  the  battery.  "  She  might  do  something,  that 
girl.  She  has  a  fine  brain — acute  and  penetrating.  But  she 
has  had  no  training;  that  is  the  mischief  of  it.  She  should 
have  been  brought  up  on  mathematics.     But,  after  all,  the 

8 


170  SHANDON  BELLS. 

number  of  women  who  have  done  anything  in  pure  science  is 
very  small.  I  think  she  is  throwing  herself  away  on  this  edu- 
cation of  the  poorest  classes ;  that  is  vestrjTnen's  work ;  though 
perhaps  I  should  not  say  so,  for  I  don't  know  precisely  what 
she  is  at." 

Then  he  rose  and  clapped  his  hands  together,  to  get  rid  of 
the  dust. 

"I  was  amused,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  She  asked  me 
what  would  be  the  most  effectual  way  of  teaching  these  ig- 
norant people  the  perniciousness  of  bi^eathing  foul  air.  You 
know  how  they  huddle  together  for  warmth,  and  cover  the  chil- 
dren over  with  such  bedclothes  as  they  have  got.  I  think 
she  was  going  to  deliver  a  lecture  on  '  Fresh  Air  and  Pure 
Water'  somewhere  or  other — " 

"Yes,  I  know  she  has  done  that,"  said  Fitzgerald,  as  the  tall 
lean  man  turned  toward  the  table  again  and  continued  his  pre- 
parations. 

"Well,  she  very  naturally  concluded  that  tumbling  gases 
of  different  weights  into  jars,  or  extinguishing  tapers,  would 
not  be  impressive  enough ;  so  I  told  her  to  get  a  sparrow,  to 
tie  its  feet  dovni  to  a  bit  of  board ;  and  to  put  over  it  a  bell-jar 
before  these  people,  and  ask  them  to  watch  what  will  happen 
to  the  bird  merely  through  its  breathing  its  own  breath.  Of 
course  the  little  creature  becomes  asphyxiated,  staggers,  and 
falls,  and  ultimately  dies.  Doubtless,  I  told  her,  the  most  effect- 
ive way  of  exhibiting  the  exijeriment  would  be  to  raise  the 
bell-jar  during  the  process  of  asphyxiation,  and  show  the  re- 
viving effect  of  the  fresh  air ;  then  to  close  it  again  until  death 
preached  its  moral.  She  said  she  would  do  that.  She  was 
quite  delighted.     What  lesson  could  be  more  obvious — " 

But  at  this  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs;  and  the  Doctor  had  to  whip  on  his  coat,  and  go  and  re- 
ceive two  or  three  young  people  who  now  entered.  Fitzgerald 
did  not  like  that  story  about  the  sparrow.  Miss  Chetwynd  was 
no  Lesbia,  clearly.  And  although  the  conscience  of  a  wild- 
fowl shooter  is  apt  to  be  hard,  and  although  he  knew  quite 
well  that  the  asphyxiation  of  a  sparrow,  or  even  twenty  dozen 
of  sparrows,  was  scarcely  to  be  considered  if  it  induced  a  cer- 
tain number  of  human  beings  to  treat  their  children  more  hu- 
manely—still— still — 


A  SYMPOSIUM.  171 

The  Doctor  came  back. 

"  I  have  a  sort  of  class,"  he  explained  to  Fitzgerald,  "  who 
come  and  i^ractice  a  little,  and  ask  questions,  before  the  vulgar 
world  arrives  to  be  amused.  I  hope  it  won't  be  tedious  for 
you.  If  you  prefer  it,  ray  assistant  will  arrange  the  telescope 
for  you ;  the  night  is  beautifully  clear — " 

' '  Oh  no,  not  at  all.  Was  Miss  Chetwynd's  experiment  suc- 
cessful ?" 

"Why,  I  forgot  to  finish  my  story.  She  got  the  sparrow, 
and  the  string,  and  the  board,  and  the  bell-jar,  all  complete ;  and 
she  thought,  to  make  sure,  she  would  make  her  first  trial  be- 
fore her  aunt  in  the  drawing-room.  And  it  was  all  quite  suc- 
cessful until  the  first  stagger  of  the  little  creature;  then  she 
hesitated ;  then  she  shook  her  head.  Off  came  the  bell-jar  at 
once ;  she  opened  the  window,  and  cut  the  string,  and  out  went 
Jack  Sparrow.  Nothing  would  induce  her  to  repeat  the  ex- 
periment." i- 

"I  should  not  have  thought  she  was  so  sentimental,"  said 
Fitzgerald. 

"Ah,  that's  just  it,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  heated  a  bit  of 
copper  wire  at  a  gas  jet.  ' '  A  woman  never  ceases  to  be  a  wo- 
man, whatever  she  is  at.  Her  reason  fails  her  when  she  is 
confronted  by  sufi'ering ;  her  heart  overmasters  her  head.  But 
in  pure  science  that  girl  might  have  done  something  if  she 
had  had  proper  training.  She  has  a  fine  quality  of  brain. 
I  can  tell  how  much  people  know  by  their  questions.  Her 
questions  are  always  sharp  and  to  the  point.  When  she  comes 
here  she  knows  precisely  what  she  wants — " 

The  good  Doctor  seemed  to  like  talking  about  Mary  Chet- 
wynd ;  but  on  this  occasion  he  was  checked  by  the  appearance 
of  the  young  lady  herself,  who  arrived  quite  alone.  She  seem- 
ed surprised  to  find  Fitzgerald  there,  though  she  said  nothing 
beyond  an  ordinary  greeting.  She  at  once  went  forward  to 
the  table;  and  the  Doctor  was  particular  in  finding  her  a 
chair,  though  the  others  who  were  now  arriving  were  allowed 
to  stand  about  anyhow. 

What  followed  was  quite  unintelligible  to  Fitzgerald,  for  at 
that  time  the  theory  of  spectroscopy  was  much  less  familiar  to 
the  public  than  it  is  nowadays,  when  every  second  school-girl 
has  a  spectroscope  in  her  pocket.     But  if  the  meaning  of  the 


172  SHANDON  BELLS. 

experiments  was  dark  to  him,  the  manners  of  the  students  were 
interesting  enough ;  and  he  could  readily  distinguish  between 
the  serious  ones,  who  were  mostly  silent,  or  only  asking  a 
question  now  and  again,  and  the  flippant  ones,  who  exclaimed 
with  terror  at  the  ghastly  appearances  of  each  other's  faces 
when  a  little  common  salt  was  ignited  at  a  Bunsen  burner, 
and  who  ci'ied,  "Oh,  how  sweetly  lovely!"  when  a  trifle  of 
chloride  of  lithium  spread  abroad  a  rose-red  flame.  But  per- 
haps it  was  the  demeanor  of  Mary  Chetwynd  that  most  en- 
gaged his  attention ;  and  he  could  see  that  her  questions  were 
the  most  promptly  answered,  and  that  to  her  most  of  the  ex- 
planations were  addressed.  Fitzgerald,  standing  apart  by  the 
mantel-piece,  and  observing,  out  of  that  motley  group,  only 
these  two — the  long,  lean,  pale-faced  teacher,  and  the  young 
lady  student  who  sat  in  a  chair  there  following  his  words 
with  a  serious  attention — began  to  dream  dreams.  Why  should 
not  these  two  cold  intelligences  go  through  the  world  together, 
like  twin  stars  sailing  through  the  night  ?  He  was  consider- 
ably her  elder,  to  be  sure;  but  the  girl  who  was  sitting  there, 
with  the  fine,  serious,  thoughtful  face,  was  more  likely  to  think 
of  his  high  reputation  than  of  his  years.  What  a  strange  love- 
making  it  would  be !  Moon-lit  walks  with  disquisitions  on  the 
spectrum  of  Sirius.  The  Bunsen  burner  looked  ghostly  enough ; 
but  he  knew  that  Don  Fierna  and  the  elves  would  fly  away  from 
it.  He  could  scarcely  help  laughing  when  he  thought  of  these 
two  tall  pei'sons  standing  on  each  side  of  the  little  stream,  and 
holding  each  other's  hand.  What  would  the  phrase  be  ? 
"Over  HO2  in  rapid  motion  ?"  And  then  he  thought  of  Kitty. 
Kitty  did  not  know,  probably,  that  water  consisted  of  hydrogen 
and  oxygen ;  but  Kitty  knew  how  to  make  love.  He  sent  her  a 
kiss  in  imagination.  By  this  time  of  the  night  she  would  be 
at  home — away  up  there  on  the  hill,  opposite  Shandon  Bells. 

These  speculations  about  the  possible  future  of  Dr.  Bude 
and  Miss  Mary  Chetwynd  were  somewhat  rudely  dispelled  by 
the  entrance  of  a  stout  and  comely  dame  in  rustling  black  silk, 
who  cheerfully  greeted  the  various  pupils,  and  kissed  Miss 
Chetwynd  very  affectionately,  and  then,  addressing  the  lectur- 
er as  "My  dear,"  asked  him  for  certain  keys.  The  next  min- 
ute Fitzgerald  was  introduced  to  this  buxom  and  good-humor- 
ed-looking lady,  who  turned  out  to  be  Mrs.  Bude ;  so  that  he 


A  SYMPOSIUM.  173 

had  to  bid  good-by  to  that  horoscope  of  the  scientific  lovers. 
Mrs.  Bude  did  not  remain  long ;  she  was  evidently  in  a  hurry ; 
Fitzgerald  returned  to  the  contemplative  study  of  the  heads 
before  him,  as  these  were  illumined  from  time  to  time  by  the 
various  colors  of  different  metals. 

Something  else  was  going  forward,  however,  on  this  first 
floor.  The  drawing-room,  with  which  this  observatory  was 
connected,  had  been  brilliantly  lit  up ;  and  now  steps  could  be 
heard  on  the  stairs  outside,  and  the  names  of  guests  being  an- 
nounced as  they  reached  the  door.  Then  some  of  these  began 
to  stroll  from  the  drawing-room  into  the  observatory;  and 
very  soon  the  Doctor  was  busy  enough,  with  greeting  these 
new-comers,  and  with  trying  to  show  them  something  they 
could  understand.  His  patience  and  good-humor  seemed  to 
Fitzgerald  admirable.  "  Oh,  what  a  lovely  green!"  "Oh, 
how  sweetly  pretty !"  ' '  Must  I  shut  one  eye  to  look  through  ?" 
' '  Doctor,  why  should  one  line  be  so  much  clearer  than  the 
others ?"  "And  so  you  know  that  all  these  things  are  in  the 
sun  ?"  ' '  Do  show  my  husband  that  pretty  green  color  again !" 
The  good  Doctor  appeared  to  be  talking  to  all  these  ladies  and 
gentlemen  at  once;  sometimes  frankly  laughing  at  their  ques- 
tions; and  not  at  all  displeased  that  he  should  be  addressed 
as  if  he  were  the  conductor  of  a  show.  Fitzgerald  could  per- 
ceive that  Miss  Chetwynd  was  calmly  regarding  the  new- 
comers; once  or  twice  he  caught  her  smiling  to  herself. 

Amid  the  crowd  of  people  who  kept  strolling  in  from  the 
large  and  well-lit  drawing-room  to  the  small  and  dusty  labora- 
tory, and  strolling  back  again,  there  was  one  lady  who  very 
much  interested  him,  partly  because  she  was  remarkably  pret- 
ty, and  partly  because  of  a  chance  exclamation  of  hers  that  he 
overheard.  The  Doctor  was  explaining  to  a  little  group  of  peo- 
ple the  source  of  color  in  objects — the  absorption  or  reflection 
of  the  different  rays  of  light,  and  so  forth ;  and  in  illustration 
he  brought  a  little  bunch  of  scarlet  geraniums  in  a  glass,  turn- 
ed off  the  light,  then  ignited  some  common  salt  at  the  Bunsen 
burner,  producing  a  powerful  yellow  flame.  Of  course  the  ge- 
raniums became  of  a  ghastly  gray ;  and  this  pretty  lady,  perhaps 
not  quite  understanding  that  nothing  had  happened  to  them, 
exclaimed  to  herself,  "Poor  things  1"  Fitzgerald  liked  her  for 
that.     She  seemed  to  recognize  some  principle  of  life  in  the  flow- 


174  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ers,  as  though  they  were  associated  with  humanity  somehow ; 
and  although  there  might  have  been  no  profound  intention  in 
her  remark,  and  although,  when  the  gas  was  lit  again,  the  ge- 
raniums were  found  to  be  quite  as  scarlet  as  ever,  nevertheless 
Fitzgerald  was  convinced  that  she  must  be  a  nice  sort  of  woman. 
Imagine,  then,  his  surprise  when,  later  in  the  evening,  the  ex- 
periments being  all  over,  and  he  himself,  doubtful  whether  he 
ought  to  I'emain,  and  yet  anxious  to  send  some  account  of  so 
brilliant  an  assemblage  to  Kitty,  rather  keeping  himself  in  the 
background,  he  found  himself  dragged  from  his  obscurity  by 
the  diligent  Doctor,  and  forthwith  intz'oduced  to  this  very  lady, 
and  directed  to  take  her  down-stairs  to  supper.  Not  only  that, 
hut  the  name  she  bore  was  also  that  of  a  distinguished  Acade- 
mician. Was  it  possible,  he  asked  himself,  as  he  conducted 
her  down-stairs,  that  she  should  be  the  wife  of  the  great  paint- 
er ?  He  determined  to  find  out ;  here,  indeed,  would  be  some- 
thing to  talk  over  with  John  Ross. 

Well,  he  got  her  a  place  at  the  long  table,  and  timidly  asked 
her  what  she  would  take — a  sandwich,  perhaps  ? 

"I  am  not  so  young  as  I  look,"  said  this  pretty,  English- 
looking  woman,  with  the  large  girlish  gray  eyes.  "I  am  the 
mother  of  three  childi'en,  and  at  my  time  of  life  I  know  better 
than  to  destroy  myself  with  sandwiches.  No— anything  else 
you  can  get." 

She  was  an  amazingly  frank  person,  and  very  pleasant  m 
her  speech  and  her  laugh.  When  he  had  got  her  some  cold 
turkey,  and  some  bread,  and  a  glass  of  claret,  he  ventured  to 
ask  her,  after  some  vague  reference  to  something  on  the  walls, 
whether  she  was  very  fond  of  pictures. 

"  I  admire  my  husband's,  of  course,"  she  said. 

Then  he  knew  he  was  right. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  he,  with  greater  confidence.  "Every 
one  does  that.  I  suppose,  now,"  he  added,  rather  hesitatingly, 
"your  husband  has  become  so  accustomed  to  his  distinguished 
position — I  mean  so  familiar  with  his  place  in  the  Academy — 
that  he  couldn't  quite  realize  the  anxiety  of  the  outside  men, 
of  those  who  are  not  well  known,  about  the  fate  of  their  pic- 
tures ?  That  would  not  interest  him  much,  would  it  ?  I  mean 
it  would  not  be  iDossible  to  induce  him  to  interest  himself  in — 
in  helping,  for  example — an  artist  who  was  not  known — " 


A  SYMPOSIUM.  175 

This  was  not  at  all  satisfactory,  especially  as  she  seemed 
to  imagine  he  was  pleading  for  himself. 

"Are  you  an  artist  ?"  she  asked  at  length,  with  a  frank  look. 

"Oh  no." 

"Well,  then,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  she,  "I  don't  know 
what  anxiety  the  outsiders  may  feel,  but  it  isn't  half  of  the 
anxiety  they  cause  me.  I  know  when  my  husband  is  on  the 
Hanging  Committee  it  thoroughly  breaks  him  down  for  three 
weeks  after.  It  is  by  far  the  hardest  work  of  the  year  for  him. 
And  then  the  thanks ! — to  be  abused  by  the  public,  and  accused 
of  envy  by  the  outsiders.  Envy,  indeed !  I  wonder  who  it 
is  that  my  husband  needs  envy  ?" 

"  Why,  not  any  one,"  said  Fitzgerald,  warmly;  for  he  liked 
the  human  nature,  the  frank  sincerity,  of  this  woman. 

"  I  wish  they'd  let  the  outsidei's  come  in  and  hang  their  own 
pictures  for  themselves,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "I  suppose 
they'd  all  quite  agree.  I  wish  they  would  paint  better,  and 
grumble  less." 

"Oh,  but  the  outsider  I  was  thinking  of  is  not  like  that," 
said  Fitzgerald,  pleasantly,  for  he  was  not  in  the  least  offend- 
ed by  her  humorous  petulance.  "He  paints  very  well,  and 
does  not  grumble  at  all.  He  is  quite  content.  Only,  I  thought 
if  your  husband  would  be  so  kind  as  merely  to  remember  his 
name,  and  look  at  his  work  when  it  is  sent  in — " 

' '  But  my  husband  was  on  the  Council  last  year ;  so  he  won't 
be  again  for  some  time — thank  goodness !" 

' '  So  there  is  no  use  in  my  asking  you  to  intercede  ?" 

"No,  not  even  if  you  offer  to  bribe  me  with  sandwiches. 
But,"  she  added,  looking  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  "what  is 
your  friend's  name  ?" 

"John  Ross." 

"That  is  not  a  difficult  name  to  remember.  John  Ross. 
Why  are  you  interested  in  him — you  are  not  Scotch  ?" 

"He  is  a  neighbor  of  mine;  and — and  he  does  good  work, 
I  think,  and  ought  to  be  better  known." 

"  Landscape  or  figures  ?" 

"  Landscape." 

"  I  guessed  as  much.  The  Scotchmen  take  to  landscape  be- 
cause they  can't  draw.  Now  take  me  back,  please,  for  I  must 
fetch  my  husband  and  get  home;  and  I  sha'n't  forget  your 


176  SHANDON  BELLS. 

friend's  name,  for  I  never  had  sandwiches  ofPered  me  as  a 
bribe  before." 

He  escorted  her  upstairs  again,  and  then  seized  the  first  op- 
portunity of  slipping  away.  In  the  hall  he  found  he  had  been 
preceded  by  Miss  Chetwynd,  who,  quite  alone,  was  tying  some- 
thing round  her  neck,  the  night  being  cold.  He  hesitated  for 
a  second,  not  quite  knowing  what  was  proper  for  him  to  do; 
and  then,  at  a  venture,  he  went  forward,  and  said, 

' '  Miss  Chetwynd,  can  I  get  your  carriage  for  you  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you, "she  said,  as  he  thought,  a  trifle  ungracious- 
ly and  stiffly.      "My  cab  is  outside.     I  know  the  man." 

The  servant  opened  the  hall  door,  and  she  passed  out,  Fitz- 
gerald lingering  for  a  moment,  under  pretense  of  buttoning 
his  overcoat.  Her  refusal  to  allow  him  to  be  of  this  slight  serv- 
ice had  been,  as  he  considered,  somewhat  too  explicit.  What 
had  he  done  ?  Or  was  she  unaware  that  her  manner  was  at 
times  a  little  too  decided  and  cold  and  repellent  ? 

It  mattered  not  to  him.  He  walked  away  through  the  chill 
dark  night  to  the  vacant  court-yard  and  the  empty  room,  think- 
ing what  a  memorable  and  wonderful  evening  that  had  been  for 
him.  Perhaps  never  such  another  would  happen  to  him;  for 
when  again  was  he  likely  to  meet  a  great  man  of  science  to 
carry  him  off,  on  the  friendly  inspiration  of  the  moment,  and 
introduce  him  to  such  a  gathering  ?  And  indeed  the  spectacle 
had  moved  him  to  neither  emulation  nor  regret.  It  was  not 
the  way  of  life  he  would  choose  if  it  were  open  to  him.  He 
had  his  own  dreams  and  ambitions,  his  own  notions  of  what 
was  beautiful  and  worth  having  in  the  world;  and  if  Mary 
Chetwynd  had  any  vague  fancy  that  he  washed  to  gain  an  en- 
trance into  distinguished  or  fashionable  society,  either  through 
a  scientific  doorway  or  through  any  other,  she  was  quite  mis- 
taken. But  more  probably  she  had  not  even  given  a  thought 
to  the  matter ;  and  he  was  content. 


A  MORNING   WALK  AND   OTHER  MATTERS.  177 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  MORNING  WALK  AND   OTHER  MATTERS. 

[N.B. — This  chapter  may  very  conveniently  be  passed  over 
by  those  who  wish  to  get  on  with  "  the  story";  for  it  contains 
little  beyond  a  description  of  one  or  two  influences  which  were 
at  this  time  in  a  measure  forming  the  character  of  this  young 
man,  and  so  far  shaping  the  work  of  his  after-life.] 

Next  morning  Fitzgerald  had  promised  to  go  for  a  walk  with 
his  Scotch  neighbor,  who  had  a  theory  that  neither  could  he 
paint  nor  his  companion  write  properly  unless  they  went  forth 
from  time  to  time  to  see  what  the  outside  world  was  looking 
like.  Moi'eover,  these  periodical  excursions  were  undertaken 
without  any  regard  to  the  weather.  John  Ross  used  to  say 
that  anybody  could  admire  the  chromo-lithograph  aspects  of 
nature,  but  that  it  wanted  training  and  affectionate  care  and 
watchfulness  to  observe  the  beautifulness  of  gray  days  and  wet 
roads  and  wintry  skies.  Fitzgerald,  of  course,  was  nothing 
loath.  He  had  brought  his  shooting  boots  and  gaiters  with 
him  from  Ireland,  and  he  had  a  serviceable  water-proof;  he 
was  just  as  ready  as  Ross  to  go  splashing  away  through  the 
mud  to  Kew,  to  see  what  the  wilderness  part  of  the  Gardens  (a 
favorite  haunt  of  theirs,  and  but  little  known  to  the  public) 
was  like  in  driving  rain,  or  in  feathery  snow,  or  in  clear  hard 
frost  when  the  red  berries  shone  among  the  green.  It  was 
wonderful  how  interesting  the  world  had  become  to  him.  He 
no  longer  confined  his  attention,  when  out  walking,  to  the  ani- 
mals and  birds  he  might  observe  (with  rapid  calculations  as  to 
whether  they  were  within  shot  or  without) ;  now,  if  there  was 
nothing  else  to  be  seen,  the  gradation  of  light  on  the  i)uddles 
of  a  rainy  road  he  found  to  be  quite  worth  looking  at.  No- 
thing had  been  taken  away  from  the  world,  but  a  great  deal 
added.  It  was  of  itself  something  that  he  had  learned  not  even 
to  despise  the  commonplace  gray  days  that  in  the  winter  so 
frequently  hung  over  Chelsea. 


178  SHANDON  BELLS. 

But  lie  had  an  added  interest  in  these  various  perambula- 
tions of  which  his  companion  knew  nothing:  he  was  continu- 
ally on  the  outlook  for  some  pretty  little  cottage,  some  quaint 
river-side  house,  that  would  meet  with  the  approval  of  Kitty's 
black  eyes  when  the  great  time  came.  This  imaginary  nest- 
building  was  a  most  fascinating  kind  of  occupation.  Some- 
times he  would  go  away  by  himself  and  ramble  through  all 
sorts  of  strange  suburban  places,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  with 
something  so  very  quaint  and  picturesque  and  secluded  that 
even  Kitty — who  rather  avoided  that  subject,  and  would  not 
express  any  preference  for  town  or  country — might  have  her 
curiosity  aroused.  So  far  the  most  engaging  place  he  had  seen 
was  a  small  odd-looking  house  in  Grosvenor  Road,  fronting 
the  river.  It  appeared  to  have  been  an  old-fashioned  tavern 
at  one  time;  but  now  it  was  a  little  private  dwelling,  with  odd 
inequalities  about  the  windows  and  gables,  and  very  prettily 
painted  in  white  and  green.  Were  not  these  the  very  windows 
for  Kitty  to  adorn  with  trailing  plants  and  flower-boxes  ? 
Again  and  again,  at  a  convenient  distance,  he  stood  and  watch- 
ed the  house,  and  tried  to  imagine  Kitty  actually  there,  reach- 
ing up  her  arms  to  put  a  branch  so,  or  so;  perhaps  singing  the 
wliile,  perhaps  whistling  to  the  blackbird  in  the  cage.  There 
was  the  slight  drawback,  it  is  true,  that  the  house  was  not  to  be 
let ;  but  then  he  and  Kitty  had  still  a  long  time  of  waiting  be- 
fore them,  and  who  knew  what  might  not  happen  in  that 
interval  ?  Besides,  wdiere  there  was  one  little  habitation  that 
seemed  so  charming,  there  might  be  others;  and  so,  whatever 
subject  John  Ross  might  be  descanting  on,  in  his  fiery-headed 
fashion,  and  however  attentively  Fitzgerald  might  be  listen- 
ing, there  was  nothing  to  prevent  the  eyes  of  the  latter  from 
wandering  from  cottage  to  cottage,  from  villa  to  villa,  from 
garden  to  garden,  in  a  sort  of  vague  mechanical  quest  for  a  pret- 
ty resting-place  for  Kitty. 

But  this  particular  morning  was  clear  and  cold  and  fine— 
an  excellent  morning  for  walking;  and  of  course  Fitzgerald 
had  a  great  deal  to  tell  about  his  experiences  of  the  previous 
night,  and  his  proposal  to  take  up  some  of  his  companion's 
pictures  to  show  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd. 

"You  see,  if  she  were  to  take  two  or  three  of  them,  it  might 
be  a  great  advantage  to  you,"  observed  Fitzgerald. 


A  MORNING  WALK  AND  OTHER  MATTERS.  179 

"It  would  be  a  very  distinct  and  solid  advantage,"  said  the 
red-bearded  gentleman,  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  but  I  mean  apart  from  the  money.  Mrs.  Chetwynd 
knows  some  of  the  Academicians;  and  if  your  pictures  were 
seen  by  them  at  her  house,  don't  you  see  ?  it  might  do  you  good. 
Oh,  that  reminds  me.  I  met  the  wife  of  an  Academician  last 
night.  I  sha'n't  tell  you  her  name,  for  she  said  something 
about  Scotch  artists  that  you  won't  like." 

"What  was  it?" 

' '  She  said  they  took  to  landscape  because  they  couldn't 
draw." 

No  doubt  Fitzgerald  repeated  this  with  the  malicious  inten- 
tion of  making  his  companion  angry;  and  indeed  for  a  mo- 
ment Jolm  Ross  stood  stock-still ;  but  then  again  he  laughed 
good-naturedly,  and  continued  his  walking. 

"Ay,  I'm  thinking  her  husband  maun  be  one  o'  the  story- 
tellers." 

"Story-tellers?" 

"There's  plenty  of  them  among  the  English  artists — men 
who  ought  to  belong  to  your  business,  no'  to  mine.  Pent  is 
what  they  know  least  about ;  but  they  can  tell  a  pretty  story — 
out  o'  a  book.  That  is  something,  after  all.  If  they  know  lit- 
tle about  color,  at  least  they  can  help  the  ignorant  public  to  a 
bit  of  sentiment  or  the  like.  But  there's  one  thing  the  Scotch 
have  done,  my  lad ;  and  that  again  and  again ;  they  have  had 
to  bring  both  English  literature  and  art  back  to  nature.  It 
was  when  people  were  given  over  to  the  wretched  ai'tifeecial- 
ities  of  the  Pope  school  that  Allan  Ramsay's  '  Gentle  Shepherd' 
and  Thomson's  '  Seasons'  got  them  back  out  o'  that  hot-house  to 
look  at  real  nature  and  human  nature — " 

"Pope?  Is  that  what  you  think  of  Poi)e  ?"  said  his  com- 
panion, eagerly ;  for  he  had  his  own  grudge  on  that  score. 

"Pope ?"  I'epeated  John  Ross.      " I  consider — " 

But,  as  it  turned  out,  there  was  to  be  no  conjoint  dancing  on 
a  dead  man's  grave,  for  at  this  moment  Ross's  attention  was 
drawn  to  two  young  hidies  who  were  crossing  the  Hammer- 
smith Road  in  front  of  them. 

' '  Heaven  save  us !"  he  exclaimed.  ' '  Did  ever  ye  see  the  like 
o'  that  ?" 

"Tlieir  waists,  do  you  mean?"  his  companion  said;  for,  in- 


180  SHANDON   BELLS. 

deed,  the  two  young  ladies,  probably  sisters,  for  they  were  dress- 
ed precisely  alike,  had  waists  of  such  small  dimensions  that 
more  than  one  person  had  turned  and  stared  at  them. 

"  The  ignorant  craytures,"  said  John  Ross,  half  angrily,  "to 
think  that  men  admire  a  spectacle  like  that !  Have  they  no 
common-sense  ?" 

"They  must  have  pretty  good  muscles,  at  all  events,  to  have 
pulled  themselves  in  like  that,"  his  companion  said. 

"But,  bless  me,  common-sense  should  tell  a  young  lass  that 
it's  the  foolishest  thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  remind  people 
that  she  has  an  internal  economy  at  all.  She  ought  to  have 
none,  in  your  imagination.  She  ought  to  be  all  spirit  and  po- 
etry; just  an  amiable  young  life  looking  out  on  the  world 
with  sweetness  and  innocence  and  a  wish  to  be  friendly.  But 
when  ye  see  a  waist  like  that,  confound  it,  ye're  made  to  ask 
yourself  where  the  mischief  she  has  put  her  liver!" 

John  Ross  seemed  to  resent  the  appearance  of  these  young 
ladies  as  if  he  had  sustained  some  personal  injury. 

' '  I  say  that  anything  that  suggests  that  a  young  lass  has  a 
spine,  or  a  liver,  or  anything  of  the  kind,  is  a  most  intoler- 
able nuisance,"  said  Ross,  angrily.  "And  to  deform  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world,  too — that  is,  the  figure 
of  a  young  woman  from  the  shoulders  to  the  waist.  Look  at 
that;  do  you  know  what  that  is ?" 

He  took  out  his  sketch-book,  and  made  a  few  rapid  lines  on 
one  of  the  blank  pages. 

"A  vase,  I  suppose." 

"That  is  the  Canopian  vase;  that  has  always  been  under- 
stood to  have  been  imitated  from  the  female  figure.  But  look 
what  it  would  be  if  the  base  were  to  be  narrowed  like  the  waist 
of  one  of  those  girls !  Look ;  where  is  your  proportion  now  ? 
What  kind  of  a  vase  is  that  ?" 

"Well,  if  you  only  drew  the  lines  down  a  little  bit  farther,  it 
would  be  like  one  of  the  Pompeiian  earthen  jars — " 

"Ay,  the  jars  they  stuck  into  the  ground.  Poor  craytures, 
that's  just  what  they  lasses  there  are  working  for.  I  wonder  if 
they  havena  got  a  mother  to  skelp  them." 

However,  the  disappearance  of  the  young  ladies  round  a  cor- 
ner removed  the  cause  of  his  grumbling;  and  very  soon  he  had 
quite  recovered  his  equanimity,  for  now  the  air  was  growing 


A   MORNING  WALK  AND  OTHER  MATTERS.  181 

clearer,  the  roads  wider,  the  gardens  between  the  houses  were 
larger,  and  the  sunlight  was  making  the  wintry  trees  and  bush- 
es look  quite  cheerful. 

"  Look  at  that,  now,"  Ross  said,  coming  to  a  sudden  halt  be- 
fore some  tall  maples,  the  branches  of  which,  reaching  away 
into  the  blue,  were  of  the  most  brilliant  gold  where  the  bark 
had  peeled  off.  ' '  Can  you  get  anything  stronger  in  color  than 
that  in  the  middle  of  summer  ?  Look  how  fine  the  blue  is 
above !" 

"Yes,  but  it  would  look  top-heavy  in  a  picture,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"No,  no,  my  lad;  there  you're  mistaken.  Sunlight  always 
comes  out;  no  fear  of  yellow  not  holding  its  own.  If  you 
were  painting  that,  you  would  find  the  blue  go  as  far  back 
as  ever  ye  wanted  it.  I  think  if  I  were  a  king,  that's  what 
I  would  have  in  my  dining-chamber — solid  gold  up  to  about 
the  height  of  your  head ;  and  then  above  that  all  a  pale  blue, 
and  the  roof  a  pale  blue,  so  that  you  could  let  your  eyes  go 
away  a  great  distance  when  you  lifted  them  from  the  table. 
And  then,  in  case  the  solid  gold  of  the  wall  would  make  you 
feel  as  if  you  were  in  a  metal  case,  I  would  have  a  procession 
of  figures,  all  in  pure  scarlet,  perhaps  mediteval  figures,  with 
trellis-work,  or  better  still,  a  Greek  procession — " 

"You  would  have  plenty  of  color,  then,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
laughing.     "  Gold,  scarlet,  and  pale  blue." 

"The  three  primaries ;  why  not  ?" 

But  as  there  was  not  much  apparent  chance  of  either  of 
these  two  having  to  study  this  matter  practically,  it  was  aban- 
doned; and  very  soon  they  found  themselves  in  the  wilder- 
ness lying  between  the  formal  part  of  Kew  Gardens  and  the 
river.  Here  it  was  a  great  delight  to  Fitzgerald  to  find  him- 
self so  completely  removed  from  all  the  surroundings  of  town 
life — watching  the  squirrels,  and  the  bii-ds,  and  what  not,  while 
his  companion  now  and  again  took  jottings  of  what  he  called 
the  anatomy  of  the  different  kinds  of  trees.  The  sunlight  was 
quite  clear  here,  and  there  was  plenty  of  rich  color  among 
the  dark  green  fii's  and  the  browns  and  reds  of  withered  leaves, 
and  the  glowing  scarlet  of  the  berries  that  still  remained  on 
the  bushes.  Then  they  walked  back  to  the  bridge;  and  for 
the  first  time  since  he  had  left  Inisheen  Fitzgerald  got  into 
a  boat,  and  enjoyed  the  new  sensation  of  managing  a  pair 


182  SHANDON  BELLS. 

of  sculls,  while  Ross  sat  in  the  stern,  and  seemed  pleased  that 
the  pull  against  the  heavy  current  was  just  about  as  much 
as  Master  Willie  wanted.  And  then  they  had  a  snack  of  lunch- 
eon at  the  nearest  hotel ;  and  then  they  set  out  to  walk  back  to 
London,  with  the  chill  gi'ay  dusk  of  tlie  afternoon  slowly  set- 
tling down. 

But  when  they  did  get  back  to  the  big  hollow-sounding 
studio,  Fitzgerald  discovered  that  he  had  a  very  difficult  task 
before  him.  Whether  it  was  that  John  Eoss  was  overfond  of 
these  children  of  his  brain  and  skill,  and  disliked  jsarting  with 
them,  or  whether  it  was  that  he  detested  the  pecuniary  side  of 
his  profession  altogether,  Fitzgerald  found  that  he  could  get  no 
help  from  him  in  the  selection  of  the  pictures  or  sketches  he 
wished  to  take  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd. 

"How  can  I  tell  what  any  one's  fancy  may  be ?"  said  he,  al- 
most surlily.  "Most  likely  she  would  rather  have  a  picture 
of  a  white  lap-dog  with  a  bit  of  pink  ribbon  round  his  neck." 

"Well,  we  will  see,"  remarked  Fitzgerald,  who  had  at  length 
chosen  out  half  a  dozen  canvases,  and  was  tymg  them  together. 
"And  now  I  must  have  a  cab — for  the  first  time  since  I  came 
to  London ;  but  I  expect  you  to  pay  that,  Ross,  if  I  sell  any 
of  your  pictures.     That  will  be  my  commission." 

Moreover,  he  was  himself  a  little  anxious.  As  the  hansom 
(which  was  not  quite  so  smooth-going  as  that  of  Dr.  Bude)  car- 
ried him  up  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  he  began  to  suspect  that 
some  of  Ross's  disinclination  had  probably  arisen  from  the  fear 
that  his  work  might  be  misunderstood,  and  subjected  to  the  ig- 
nominy of  refusal.  That  was  bad  enough  at  the  Academy; 
but  in  the  case  of  the  Academy  there  was  also  the  consoling 
possibility  that  it  was  want  of  space  which  was  the  practical 
cause  of  rejection.  Mr.  Ross  was  a  proud  man  in  his  way,  lit- 
tle as  he  was  disposed  to  overrate  the  value  of  his  work.  And 
Fitzgerald,  when  he  was  actually  carrying  these  canvases  up- 
stairs, began  to  think  that  he  had  assumed  a  very  sex'ious 
responsibility. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  kind  old  lady,  who  examined 
these  landscapes  as  well  as  she  could  with  the  aid  of  a  large 
magnifying-glass,  would  at  once,  in  her  good-humored  way, 
have  purchased  some  of  them,  or  perhaps  even  the  whole  of 
them ;  but  this  he  would  not  hear  of.     It  was  not  altogether 


A  MORNING  WALK  AND  OTHER  MATTERS.  183 

as  a  favor  to  an  unknown  artist  that  he  wished  to  dispose 
of  them,  he  gently  reminded  her :  perhaps  if  one  or  two  of 
her  friends  saw  these  studies  tliey  would  be  very  glad  to  get 
them.  In  any  case  he  would  rather  have  her  wait  for  their 
opinion. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  she,  good-naturedly.  "And  the 
price  ?" 

Fitzgerald  flushed  uneasily. 

"  I  could  not  get  my  friend  to  say  exactly.  Perhaps — per- 
haps if  you  were  to  ask  Mr. to  value  them —     Being  an 

A-cademician,  he  ought  to  know." 

"Oh,  hut  that  would  never  do.  So  much  depends  on  cir- 
cumstances. So  much  depends  on  your  friend's  own  valu- 
ation.    Have  you  no  guess  ?" 

"Well, "said  Fitzgerald,  desperately,  "I  may  as  well  make 
a  guess;  for  Mr.  Ross  won't  help  me.  I  think  they  are  worth 
more — but  he  is  not  known,  of  course — and  I  don't  think  £20 
each  would  be  too  much — " 

"Would  it  be  too  little?"  said  the  little  old  lady,  with  a 
charming  frankness.  ' '  For  who  knows  what  fancy  some  of 
our  friends  may  take  for  them  ?" 

"If  you  would  not  mind  asking  Mr. ,"  he  again  sug- 
gested. 

"Well,  I  will,"  she  said.  "  On  that  basis,  that  if  we  take 
them  at  £20  each,  your  friend  woii't  be  greatly  dissatisfied." 

"I  think  he  will  be  very  much  pleased.  Only,"  he  added, 
with  some  hesitation,  "  if  I  might  ask  another  favor,  it  would 

be  that,  supposing  Mr. does  not  come  here  this  evening,  or 

very  soon,  indeed,  you  might  not  be  too  long  in  arriving  at 
some  decision.  The  fact  is,  I  would  not  like  Mr.  Ross  to  be 
thinking  that  his  studies  were  waiting  out  on  approval,  as  it 
were — " 

"  I  understand  perfectly,"  said  the  good  old  lady,  "and  there 
will  be  no  delay,  I  promise  you." 

That  niglit  Fitzgerald  was  in  Ross's  studio.  Both  were 
smoking  and  talking;  but  Ross  had  his  sketch-book  on  his 
knee,  and  also  handy  a  box  of  water-colors.  He  was  illustra- 
ting a  favorite  theory  of  his  that  after  such  a  walk  as  they 
had  had  that  morning,  the  memory  recalls  most  clearly,  if 
not  exclusively,  such  objects  as  were  lit  up  by  the  sunlight; 


184  SHANDON  BELLS. 

9,nd  he  was  jotting  down  memoranda  of  things  he  could  re- 
member— the  brass  knob  on  a  house  door,  the  zinc  roof  of  a 
conservatory,  a  red  cart-wheel  against  a  gray  wall,  and  so 
forth,  and  so  forth — in  an  aimless  sort  of  way,  and  mainly  for 
amusement. 

"  There's  somebody  going  up  your  stair,"  he  said. 

Fitzgerald  went  out  and  called,  "  Who's  there  ?" 

"A  letter  for  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  a  voice  from  above. 

"All  right.     Bring  it  here.     Do  you  want  an  answer  f 

"No,  sir,  "said  the  lad,  "I  believe  not,  sir.     Good-night,  sir." 

"Good-night." 

Fitzgerald  hesitated.  He  knew  the  letter  was  from  Mrs. 
Chetwynd,  for  the  address  was  in  Miss  Chetwynd's  hand- 
writing; and  he  would  gladly,  for  the  sake  of  preparation, 
have  opened  it  in  his  own  room.  But  here  was  Ross  call- 
ing from  within  to  know  what  was  the  matter,  and  so  he 
boldly  resolved  to  enter  and  open  the  letter  before  him,  what- 
ever the  decision  might  be. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Fitzgerald"  (this  was  what  Miss  Chetwynd's 
clear,  beautiful,  precise  liandwriting  said), —  "  My  aunt  says  you. 
seemed  anxious  to  know  as  soon  as  possible  the  fate  of  your 
friend's  sketches,  and  desires  me  to  send  you  this  note  to-night. 

They  have  been  much  admired,  I  believe.     Mr. took  one, 

Dr.  Bude  another,  and  my  aunt  keeps  the  remaining  four ;  and 
I  am  asked  to  inclose  this  check  for  £120,  as  she  thinks  that 
was  about  what  you  suggested. 

"  Yours  faithfully,  Mary  Chetwynd." 

' '  Now  isn't  that  a  kind  old  lady  ?"  said  Fitzgerald.  ' '  Fancy 
her  taking  the  trouble  to  send  a  message  at  this  time  of  night ! 
Well,  what  do  you  say,  Ross  ?  Is  it  enough  ?  You  know  I  had 
nothing  to  guide  me.     Is  it  enough  ?" 

John  Ross  was  holding  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  staring  at 
it  absently. 

' '  I  wonder  which  one  he  took  ?  I  would  give  anything  just 
to  find  that  out,"  said  he,  apparently  to  himself. 

Fitzgerald  took  the  letter  from  him,  and  glanced  at  it  again. 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  he.  "I  did  not  notice  it.  That 
was  the  Academician  himself  who  took  one.     I  shall  find  out 


A  MORNING   WALK   AND  OTHER  MATTERS.  185 

to-morrow  which  one  he  bought.  But  I  want  to  know  wheth- 
er the  money  is  sufficient." 

"Plenty — plenty.     Enough  and  to  spare." 

' '  Then  I  will  trouble  you  for  eighteenpence,  that  I  paid  for 
the  cab. " 

"We'll  make  a  better  job  of  it  than  that,  my  lad,"  said  he, 
coming  to  the  money  question  at  last,  and  shoving  the  check 
across  the  small  table.  "  Ye'll  just  take  a  clear  half  o'  that; 
and  ye'll  take  a  holiday ;  and  go  away  over  to  Ireland  and  see 
the  young  lass  that  ye're  aye  thinking  about,  though  ye  will 
not  say  so;  and  cheer  her  up.     That's  sensible." 

Fitzgerald  gave  a  slight  backward  touch  to  the  check. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  he  (his  face  a  little  red).  "I  am 
not  in  want  of  money,  thank  you  all  the  same.  What  I  am  in 
want  of,"  he  added,  after  a  second,  and  with  his  eyes  grown 
distant,  ' '  is  some  more  certain  employment.  Then  I  would 
go  back  to  Ireland  gladly  enough  for  a  day  or  two.  But  this 
literary  business  is  so  difficult." 

"  Is  it  worse  than  pentin  ?"  the  other  demanded.  "When 
have  I  had  as  much  money  as  that  at  one  time  ?  Never  in 
all  my  life !  And  sooner  or  later  ye'll  just  di'op  on  your  feet 
like  that ;  and  not  a  mere  chance,  such  as  that  is,  but  a  settled 
thing,  a  permanency;  and  then  I  know  fine  what  will  happen. 
'  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad !'  and  it's  a'  smiles,  and 
white  satin,  and  nervousness,  and  the  laughing  and  joking  of 
your  friends ;  and  if  ye  havena  a  jar  o'  good  Scotch  whiskey 
for  that  day,  then  my  name's  not  John  Ross !" 

"In  the  mean  time,"  said  Fitzgerald,  looking  a  bit  more 
cheerful,  "I  propose — " 

"  In  the  mean  time,  are  ye  going  to  take  the  money  ?"  said 
Ross,  in  his  downright  way.  "Why  not?  I  could  not  have 
got  as  much  myself.     And  I  have  plenty  to  go  on  with." 

"No,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily;  "but  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
can  do,  if  you  like.  .  Next  Saturday  Mrs.  Chctwynd  is  going 
down  to  Hastings  until  the  Monday.  Now  on  the  Saturday 
we  shall  have  a  grand  holiday,  and  you  shall  pay  for  every- 
thing, from  the  rising  of  the  sun  till  the  going  down  of  the 
same — in  fact,  until  we  get  back  here." 

"Most  certainly — most  certainly;  but  where  are  ye  for  go- 
ing this  time  ?" 


186  SHANDON  BELLS. 

' '  Down  the  Thames — all  about  the  docks  and  wharves.  I 
have  not  smelt  tar,  or  stumbled  over  a  rope,  or  had  a  chat 
with  a  captain,  since  I  left  the  south  of  Ireland.  And  won't 
you  see  color  there,  if  the  day  is  fine — the  river,  the  barges,  the 
ruddy  sails—" 

"  It's  done  with  ye,"  said  Ross,  decisively.  "It's  done  with 
you.  And  we'll  get  our  dinner  somewhere — if  possible  in  a 
place  overlooking  the  river.  We  will  find  out  some  old-fash- 
ioned tavern — propped  up  on  piles,  maybe — with  a  buxom  land- 
lady in  the  bar,  among  the  Schiedam  bottles  and  the  silver,  and 
the  landlord  a-coming  in  to  us  with  a  bottle  o'  Madeira  forty 
years  old,  and  sitting  down,  of  course,  and  having  a  crack  wi' 
us.     And  then — but  can  ye  keej)  a  secret  ?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Then,  I'm  thinking,  my  lad,  when  that  bottle's  opened, 
and  mum's  the  word  except  for  guesses — I'm  thinking,  without 
any  breach  of  secrecy  on  your  part,  and  without  any  impu- 
dence on  mine:  what  do  ye  say,  then,  if,  when  that  bottle  was 
opened,  we  were  to  drink  a  glass  '  To  the  lass  thafs  over  the 
ivater'  ?" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AN  APPARITION. 

But  it  was  not  fated  that  Fitzgerald  should  go  to  the  docks ; 
the  docks,  or  at  least  a  representative  of  them,  came  to  him. 
The  following  day,  early  in  the  afternoon,  he  was  working 
away  as  industriously  as  usual — as  industriously  as  if  he  had 
had  no  experience  of  the  coyness  or  iudifi'erence  of  London 
publishers  and  editors.  He  was  deeply  intent  on  what  he  was 
about ;  and  so,  when  he  heai'd  outside  the  preliminary  tinkling 
of  a  banjo,  and  made  sure  he  was  about  to  be  serenaded  by 
a  nigger-minstrel,  he  rose  with  much  angry  impatience  and 
went  to  the  door,  not  quite  sure  whether  tlie  best  way  to  get  ind 
of  the  man  was  to  throw  something  to  him  or  to  throw  some- 
thing at  him. 

When,  however,  he  went  outside,  a  most  extraordinary 
scene  was  presented  to  him  in  the  court-yard  below.  It  was 
raining  hard,  to  begin  with.     The  nigger-minstrel  seemed  to 


AN  APPARITION.  187 

be  very  drunk  and  very  merry;  and  he  was  not  alone;  for, 
backing  fi'oni  him,  apparently  in  abject  terror,  was  a  singu- 
lar-looking creature,  whose  face  Fitzgerald  could  not  see,  but 
who  wore  a  pilot-jacket  much  too  big  for  him,  and  sou'wester, 
and  carried  a  large  bundle  slung  over  his  shoulder  by  means 
of  a  stick.  The  fui'ther  that  this  little  man  in  the  big  sou'west- 
er retreated — his  gestures  indicating  a  cowering  fear — the  near- 
er came  this  capering  soot-faced  idiot  in  the  dress-coat,  white 
breeches,  and  vast  pink  collar,  singing  snatches  of  doggerel,  or 
begging  for  money  with  a  sort  of  drunken  facetiousness. 

"Now,  Paddy,  a  sixpence  won't  hurt  ye.  Not  a  sixpence 
for  the  poor  musician  ?  A  drop  o'  dog's-nose,  Paddy — two- 
pennorth  o'  gin,  then,  old  man." 

Then  he  twanged  his  banjo  again,  and  capered  and  skipped, 
clearly  enjoying  the  obvious  fright  of  his  victim. 

"Where's  your  shillalagh,  Paddy?  Och,  but  ye're  the 
broth  of  a  boy.  Not  twopennorth  o'  gin  for  the  poor  musician, 
Paddy  ?" 

But  the  little  man  had  retreated  until  he  had  reached  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  and  could  back  no  further.  In  his  desperation  he 
shouted : 

"Away  wid  ye!  Away  wid  ye!"  and  Fitzgerald  suddenly 
fancied  that  the  voice  was  familiar  to  him. 

The  nigger-minstrel  was  not  to  be  balked  of  his  drunken  fun. 
He  skipped  and  danced  round  his  victim,  poking  at  his  face 
with  his  banjo.  Then  something  desperate  happened  all  at 
once.  The  little  man  dropped  his  bundle,  and,  with  the  stick 
that  liad  supported  it  in  his  hand,  seemed  to  jump  at  his  enemy 
like  a  wild-cat. 

"Blood  alive,  but  I'll  bate  your  head  in!"  he  yelled;  and 
the  next  moment  there  was  a  battering  of  blows,  that  seemed 
all  the  more  terrible  because  most  of  them  fell  on  the  banjo, 
with  which  the  nigger  was  vainly  defending  himself.  Fitz- 
gerald thought  it  was  high  time  to  interfere. 

"  Here,  you !"  he  called  from  the  top  of  the  stairs.  "  What 
are  you  doing  there  ?" 

The  scrimmage  ceased  for  a  second  as  the  little  man  looked 
up;  then  he  uttered  a  slight  cry.  In  three  bounds  he  was  up 
the  stairs. 

"  Oh,  Masthcr  Willie,  'tis  yoursilf  at  last !"  he  cried.     "  Glory 


188  SHANDON   BELLS. 

be  to  God !  Glory  be  to  God !  Tis  yoursilf  at  last,  Masther 
Willie—" 

But  in  his  agitation  Andy  the  Hopper  could  not  get  rid  of 
his  alarm ;  and  a  frightened  glance  told  him  that  his  enemy 
was  also  coming  up  the  stairs. 

"Away  wid  ye!  Away  wid  ye,  ye  bligard!  Oh,  Masther 
Willie,  what  kind  of  a  man  is  that  ?  Sure  I  thought  he  was 
the  divil !" 

"Did  you  never  see  a  nigger-minstrel  before?"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, laughing,  but  keeping  an  eye  on  the  musician.  "  Well, 
if  he  isn't  the  divil,  Andy,  you'll  have  the  divil  to  pay;  for 
you've  broken  his  banjo." 

"And  sarve  the  bligard  right — the  dhirty  bligard  !"  said 
Andy,  who  was  much  braver  now,  with  Master  Willie  in  front 
of  him.  ' '  Sure  I  tould  him  I'd  bate  him,  and  I  did — the  bli- 
gard !" 

But  the  minstrel  was  no  longer  facetious ;  nor  was  he  irate 
either.  He  was  morose.  He  contemplated  the  smashed  strings 
of  the  banjo  with  a  gloomy  air.  Then  he  tried  to  get  Fitz- 
gerald to  believe  that  this  savage  Paddy  had  attacked  him ;  and 
when  Fitzgerald  remarked  that  he  had  seen  the  affair  from  the 
beginning,  the  complaint  dwindled  down  into  a  lachrymose 
petition  for  some  compensation.  Would  the  gentleman  look  at 
what  had  been  done  to  his  hat  and  his  wig  ?  Would  the  kind 
gentleman  give  a  poor  man  a  drop  o'  something  to  drink,  to 
keep  out  the  rheumatics  ?  At  last  he  went  away,  pacified  with 
a  shilling ;  but  after  Fitzgerald  and  his  new  companion  had 
gone  inside  and  shut  the  door,  they  heard  an  extraordinary 
burst  of  shrill  laughter  in  the  court-yard  below,  as  if  the  de- 
parting minstrel  had  just  remembered  again  the  joke  he  had 
played  off  on  the  frightened  Paddy. 

"Well,  Andy,  sit  down  and  tell  me  what  has  brought  you 
to  London." 

But  Andy  was  quite  bewildered.  His  delight  at  seeing  the 
young  master  again ;  the  fright  of  his  encounter  with  the  black 
creature;  the  strangeness  of  this  big,  bare  apartment — these 
seemed  to  deprive  him  of  speech.  And  then  he  uttered  an 
exclamation : 

"Oh,  mother  o'  Moses,  if  the  bligard  hasn't  taken  my  bag!" 

"  What  bag,  Andy  ?" 


AN  APPARITION.  189 

' '  The  bag  wid  the  shnipes,  and  the  tale,  and  the  hares.  Sure 
the  sight  of  your  face,  Masther  Willie,  has  dhrew  away  my 
sinses — " 

"You  must  have  left  it  down  below — go  and  see." 

Andy  quickly  moved  to  the  door,  and  then  as  suddenly 
paused. 

'  *  Sure,  Masther  Willie,  axin'  your  pardon,  would  ye  come 
too?" 

Fitzgerald  burst  out  laughing,  but  he  went  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs. 

"The  fellow's  gone,  Andy;  you  need  not  be  afraid.  And 
so  is  your  bag,  I  imagine." 

But,  to  Andy's  great  delight,  he  found  the  bag,  which  had 
been  kicked  past  the  corner  of  the  building  during  the  scuffle, 
and  so  had  escaped  observation  when  they  were  retiring  from 
the  scene  of  the  fight.  And  a  very  heavy  bag  it  was— this 
water-proof  sack  which  Andy  the  Hopper,  having  removed  his 
sou'wester  and  his  big  pilot-jacket,  proceeded  to  open.  There 
were  snipe,  and  teal,  and  golden  plover,  and  what  not,  and 
there  were  three  splendid  plump  brown  hares.  It  seemed  quite 
natural  to  see  this  little  red-haired  leprechaun-looking  Andy 
on  his  knees  sorting  out  the  game. 

"And  where  did  all  these  come  from,  Andy  ?" 

"Sure,  some  from  the  bog,  and  some  from  the  mountain," 
answered  Andy,  imperturbably. 

' '  And  who  shot  them  ?" 

"  Is  it  who  shot  them  ?  Who  would  be  af  ther  shooting  them 
but  mesilf,  your  honor  ?" 

"And  who  gave  you  leave  to  shoot  the  mountain  ?" 

"  Lave  ?"  said  Andy,  looking  up  with  a  quite  honest  stare  of 
the  small  clear  blue  eyes.  "There's  no  one  'd  be  axing  for 
lave  to  shoot  a  slinipe  or  a  hare  for  yer  honor.  Yerra,  who'd 
be  axing  for  lave  ?" 

"Oh,  Andy!  Andy!"  said  Fitzgerald.  "What  have  you 
been  after  ?" 

For  now,  indeed,  as  Andy,  with  a  little  hesitation,  drew  out 
a  brace  of  fine-plumaged  pheasants,  and  stroked  tlieir  feathers 
down,  and  smoothed  out  their  long  tails,  even  Andy  seemed 
a  little  bit  self-conscious. 

"Oh,  Andy,  what  have  you  been  up  to  ?" 


190  shaNdon  bells. 

"  Thrue  for  you,  sir,"  said  Andy,  looking  very  matter-of-fact: 
"  it  isn't  often  thim  kind  o'  birds  comes  about  tlie  mountain — " 

' '  The  mountain !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  shot  these  phea- 
sants up  the  mountain  ?" 

' '  It  isn't  often  thim  kind  o'  birds  comes  about  the  mount- 
ain," said  Andy,  vaguely. 

"You  stole  them  out  of  Lord  Kinsale's  coverts— I  know  you 
did." 

"  Auh!  To  hear  the  like  o'  that,  now!  Shtalin' !  Was  I 
ever  afther  shtalin'  whin  I  was  out  wid  you,  Masther  Willie,  on 
both  bog  and  mountain,  many's  and  many's  the  time  ?  They're 
a  foine  brace  o'  birds,  yer  honor." 

There  was  no  denying  that,  at  all  events ;  and  Andy  avoided 
further  discussion  or  confession  by  proceeding  to  carry  the 
game  to  the  adjacent  table,  where  he  laid  out  the  beautifully 
plumaged  birds  brace  by  brace,  just  as  he  used  to  do  on  the 
kitchen  dresser  at  Inisheen,  after  Master  Willie  and  he  had 
come  back  from  the  mountain.  And  then  he  Avas  invited  to 
come  and  sit  by  the  fire  and  light  his  pipe,  the  while  the  young 
master  went  and  got  a  pint  bottle  of  ale  and  a  tumbler  for  him. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  these  two  had  had  a  chat  together. 

It  appeared,  then,  from  Andy's  narrative,  that  a  gentleman 
of  the  name  of  Tim  Sullivan,  who  had  married  Andy's  cousin 
Bridget,  had  laid  under  some  obligation  the  captain  of  a  trad- 
ing smack  called  the  Molly  Bawn,  who  had  offered  in  return  to 
Mr.  Sullivan  a  free  passage  to  London — or  at  least  to  Lime- 
house — w^henever  he  chose  to  make  the  triji.  This  Mr.  Sullivan 
seemed  to  be  a  person  of  wide  and  ambitious  views,  for,  though 
he  could  not  avail  himself  of  this  offer  to  see  the  world — owing 
to  his  wife  being  ill,  and  he  having  to  look  after  the  pigs— he 
did  not  wish  to  have  it  thi'own  away ;  and  so  he  had  come  to 
Andy  the  Hopper  and  put  the  chance  before  him. 

"He  says  to  me,  '  Andy,  would  ye  like  to  see  London,  now  ?' 
'Divil  a  bit,'  says  I;  'but  it's  Masther  Willie  I'd  like  to  see.' 
'  Sure,'  says  he,  '  'tis  the  great  chance  for  ye.  For  what  can  a 
gintleman  do  in  London  without  a  sarvint  V  says  he.  '  Bai- 
thershin,'says  I;  'whose  sarvint?'  'Whose?'  says  he;  'who 
but  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ?'  'Begor,'  says  I,  'but  'tis  the  divil's  own 
cleverness  ye've  got,  Tim  Sullivan;  for  who'd  have  thought  of 
that,  now  V  " 


AN  APPARITION.  191 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you've  come  all  the  way  from 
Inisheen,  Andy,  to  try  your  luck  in  London  as  a  man-servant  ?" 

"Well,  Masther  Willie,"  said  Andy,  scratching  his  red  hair 
with  much  perplexity,  ' '  not  in  a  gineral  kind  of  way ;  but  if  it 
was  yovirsilf,  sorr — " 

Fitzgerald  glanced  round  the  apartment. 

"  Does  this  look  as  if  I  needed  a  man-servant,  Andy  ?" 

Now  there  is  very  little  doubt  that  Andy  the  Hopper  had  been 
possessed  with  the  conviction  that  Master  Willie,  having  gone 
away  to  make  his  fortune,  would  be  living  in  grand  style ;  but 
his  notions  of  grandeur  were  vague.  And  in  any  case,  was 
this  all  of  the  house  that  belonged  to  the  young  master  ?  Fitz- 
gerald had  gently  to  explain  to  him  that  these  visions  that  Mr. 
Sullivan  had  awakened  were  not  practical ;  and  he  was  very 
much  pleased  to  hear  that  Andy  could  get  a  free  passage  back 
in  about  ten  days'  time,  and  that  also  one  of  the  hands  on  board 
the  smack  had  got  him  a  lodgment  at  Limehouse.  Nor  was 
Andy  so  greatly  disappointed.  He  had  always  been  accus- 
tomed to  take  Master  Willie's  advice  as  something  that  there 
was  no  contesting ;  and  he  quickly  fell  in  with  the  notion  that, 
now  he  was  here,  the  best  thing  he  could  do  was  to  see  as  much 
of  London  as  he  could,  that  he  might  be  a  great  person  when  he 
got  back  to  Inisheen. 

' '  How  you  ever  got  here  I  don't  understand, "  Fitzgerald  said. 

"Sure,  thin,  your  honor,  'twas  one  of  the  boys  that  tould 
me  the  river  went  all  the  way  through  the  town,  from  ind  to 
ind,  and  says  he,  'Kape  to  the  shtrame,  and  ask  the  people 
from  toimc  to  toime.'  'Tis  iver  since  the  morning  I've  been  at 
it ;  but  gloiy  be  to  God,  I  found  ye  at  last,  Masther  Willie ;  and 
that's  the  best  part  av  the  story  they'll  be  wanting  to  hear 
about  when  I  get  back  to  Inisheen." 

"  Well,  now,  Andy,  begin  and  tell  me  all  the  news.  Were 
there  many  cock  about  this  winter  ?  Was  my  father  out  shoot- 
ing any  time  ?" 

Thus  invited,  the  little  impish-looking  red-haired  man,  suck- 
ing away  at  a  short  clay  pipe  the  while,  began  to  tell  all  that 
had  happened  since  Master  Willie  had  left  Inisheen;  and  very 
far  and  wide  did  these  rambling  reminiscences  extend.  It  is 
impossible  to  say  how  intex'esting  these  were  to  Fitzgerald ;  and 
yet  on  one  point,  the  most  interesting  of  all,  Andy  had  nothing 


192  SHANDON  BELLS. 

to  say,  and  he  dared  not  ask.  What,  indeed,  could  Andy 
know  ?  Miss  Romayne  had  not  been  back  to  Inisheen  since 
she  had  left  it  shortly  after  his  own  leaving ;  and  Andy's  visits 
to  Coi"k  were  the  rarest  things  in  his  life — otherwise  it  is  quite 
possible  he  might  there  have  made  himself  familiar  with  the 
appearance  of  a  nigger-minstrel.  How  could  he  know  any- 
thing about  Kitty  ?  And  yet  the  charm  of  all  this  news  to 
Master  Willie  was  that  it  spoke  to  him  of  the  neighborhood 
where  he  and  Kitty  had  been  together. 

At  last  this  became  too  tantalizing. 

"Andy,"  says  he,  "do  you  remember  the  young  lady  that 
came  down  to  Inisheen,  and  staid  in  Widow  Flanagan's  house 
for  a  time  ?" 

"Faix  I  do," said  Andy,  with  a  facetious  grin.  "Sure  I  re- 
mimber  well  enough  the  poor  gyurl  your  honor  made  a  fool  of." 

He  flushed  resentfully.  But  how  could  he  complain  of  this 
familiarity  ?  He  had  brought  it  on  himself  by  his  injudicious 
questioning.  And  then,  no  doubt,  Andy  considered  this  a  lit- 
tle bit  of  astute  flattery  to  regard  the  young  master  as  a  gay 
Lothario. 

' '  She  did  not  break  her  heart  though  ye  did  lave  her,  Mas- 
ther  Willie,  and  that's  thrue,"  he  added,  with  another  pull  at 
the  pipe. 

"How  do  you  know  ?  How  do  you  know  anything  about 
her  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  angrily. 

"  'Twas  Corney  Malone,"  continued  Andy,  with  the  compos- 
ure of  indifference — for  he  doubtless  thought  this  was  but  as 
another  of  his  items  of  news — "was  up  at  Cork,  to  see  his 
daughter  Biddy  and  the  two  boys — that's  Pathrick  with  the 
squint  eye  and  young  Corney — he  was  afther  seeing  them  away 
to  Americay — and  sure,  your  honor,  that's  the  way  wid  'em  all 
now,  and  soon  there'll  be  nobody  left  in  the  counthry  but  the 
gossoons  and  the  ould  women— and  when  he  came  back  to  In- 
isheen he  was  in  the  kitchen  at  the  Impayrial,  and  says  he, 
'  Sure  the  foine  young  lady  that  Masther  Willie  was  sportin' 
about  wid  hasn't  broken  her  heart  for  his  laving  of  her.' 
'  What  d'ye  mane,  Corney  ?'  says  I,  for  I  was  in  the  kitchen 
too — if  it  was  not  for  a  shnipe  or  two,  or  a  mallard  mebbe, 
how  could  a  poor  man  earn  his  living,  your  honor  ? — and 
says  I,  '  Corney,  what  d'ye  mane  ?'     '  Faix,'  says  he,  '  'tis  an- 


AN  APPARITION.  193 

other  one  now  she's  sportin'  about  wid — a  young  spark  from 
Dublin.'  " 

For  a  moment  to  Fitzgerald  the  world  seemed  to  whirl 
round ;  a  kind  of  blackness  came  before  his  eyes ;  life  was  slip- 
ping away  from  him.  But  the  next  instant  there  was  a  back- 
ward rush — of  contempt  and  indignation. 

"Who  the  devil  told  you  to  bring  your  kitchen  gabble 
here  ?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made  Andy  di-op  his  pipe. 

Then  he  was  deeply  mortified  with  himself.  As  if  it  was  the 
slightest  consequence  what  reports  might  be  going  about  Kitty 
in  Inisheeu  or  elsewhere !  And  was  it  not  shamefixl  that  he 
should  have  allowed  himself  to  be  startled  ?  He  instantly  as- 
sumed a  forcedly  tranquil  air;  and  said,  quite  good-naturedly: 
"  Well,  Andy,  I  suppose  there  isn't  much  doing  just  now  in 
Inisheen :  no  doubt  the  people  about  the  Imperial  are  glad  to 
have  things  to  talk  about,  however  foolish  they  may  be — " 

' '  Thrue  for  you,  sorr, "  said  Andy,  contentedly ;  he  seemed 
quite  unaware  of  having  caused  any  quick  pang  of  dismay. 

"Mr.  Corney  Malone  has  been  putting  a  lot  of  nonsense  in 
your  head,"  said  Fitzgerald,  presently.  "  I  su^jpose  he  is  vex- 
ed because  the  young  lady  did  not  buy  any  ribbons  or  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  at  his  shop — things  that  he  buys  in  Cork  and 
sells  to  you  Inisheen  people  at  double  the  price." 

"The  divil  swape  him!"  said  Andy,  with  heart-felt  satisfac- 
tion: it  was  enough  for  him  that  Master  Willie  had  declared 
against  Corney  Malone. 

He  invited  Andy  to  continue  his  gossip ;  but  that  was  less  in- 
teresting now.  He  scarcely  listened.  He  was  thinking  of 
Kitty's  letters — the  very  breathings  of  her  soul.  Could  any 
one  who  had  read  these  charming,  inconsequent,  affectionate 
prattlings  doubt  the  honesty  of  her  who  had  written  them  ? 
It  was  at  himself  he  was  wondering.  Why  should  he  have 
felt,  for  even  a  second,  this  blackness  of  death  grip  his  heart  ? 
It  was  for  this,  then,  that  she  hud  given  him  the  great  treasure 
of  her  love — that,  at  the  first  idle  tale,  he  should  imagine  it 
possible  for  her  to  be  a  common  flirt  ?  What  Hilton  Clarke 
had  said,  then,  was  true  ?  She  should  not  have  been  left  alone  ? 
Perhaps  she  also  had  the  "  unappeasable  heart"  ?  Perhaps  he 
was  I'eady  to  believe  that  the  little  shoots  of  tenderness  had  al- 
ready gone  out  to  cling  to  somebody  else  ?     Thus  it  was  that 

9 


194  SHANDON  BELLS. 

while  Andy  the  Hopper  was  giving  a  religiously  accurate  ac- 
count of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  everybody  in  Inisheen,  Mas- 
ter Willie — fighting  for  poor  Kitty,  who  was  so  far  away — was 
proving  to  himself  that  he  had  never  deserved  to  have  her 
love,  or  he  would  not  have  allowed  that  foolish  rumor  to  have 
dealt  him  such  a  blow. 

Still,  he  wished  to  get  out  into  the  open  au*. 

"Andy,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch,  "I  have  an  engage- 
ment now,  but  I  shall  be  back  by  a  quarter  past  seven.  You 
can't  go  away  down  to  Limehouse  to-night ;  you  would  never 
get  there.  I  will  see  if  the  landlady  hei*e  can  get  you  a  bed  for 
the  night  somewhere-,  and  you'll  want  some  supper.  Wait 
here  till  I  come  back." 

"A  word  wid  ye,  your  honor,"  said  Andy,  anxiously. 
"May  I  make  so  bould  as  to  bolt  the  door  when  your  honor's 
gone  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  certainly.  But  there  is  no  chance  of  the  black 
gentleman  coming  back." 

It  was  still  I'aining,  out  here  in  the  dark  night,  and  he  put  up 
his  umbrella  unconsciously;  but  there  were  not  many  objects 
he  passed  during  his  rapid  walk  up  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens 
that  he  noticed  or  could  have  remembered.  His  thoughts  were 
far  away.  Why  should  poor  Kitty  have  been  made  the  subject 
of  idle  rumors  like  these  ?  What  could  Corney  Maloue  know 
of  her  ?  Corney  Malone  was  a  small  shop-keeper  in  Inisheen ; 
apparently  lie  had  been  unable  to  keep  his  family  or  to  procure 
work  for  them  in  the  old  country ;  so  he  had  been  drafting  them 
o£F  to  America.  And  it  was  likely  that,  during  that  short  visit 
to  Cork,  he  should  get  to  know  anything  of  Miss  Eomayne ! 
Even  if  he  saw  her  walking  with  any  one — which  was  absurd — 
how  could  he  tell  that  the  person  was  from  Dublin?  What 
would  Kitty  say  when  he  should  tell  her — as  he  certainly 
should — that  this  bit  of  tittle-tattle,  coming  unexpectedly,  had 
very  nearly  parted  soul  and  body  ?  He  recalled  that  sensation 
with  a  sort  of  shudder.  It  seemed  as  if  the  world  were  falling 
away  from  around  him,  and  that  he  was  blind  ;  and  all  be- 
cause Corney  Malone,  in  the  back  kitchen  of  the  Imperial,  had 
been  chattering  spiteful  nonsense  to  the  idlers  about.  Perhaps 
it  was  well  for  the  symmetry  of  Mr.  Malone's  features — which 
was  not  much  to  boast  of  at  the  best— that  he  was  not  any- 


AN  APPARITION.  195 

where  about  Fitzgerald's  neighborhood  just  at  this  present 
moment. 

He  reached  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  set  to  work  to  get 
through  the  hour  mechanically.  Fortunately  that  was  easy ; 
for  he  had  brought  with  him  a  newly  published  volume  of 
Arctic  travel,  which  was  exceediugly  interesting,  and  was  mak- 
ing much  stir;  and  he  had  had  time  to  mark  the  salient  pas- 
sages. How  strange  it  was  to  read  of  that  far  white  land,  and 
to  see  behind  it  all  the  time  the  harbor  and  the  hills  of  Ini- 
sheen!  It  was  Inisheen  he  was  thinking  of,  not  Cork.  He 
did  not  like  to  think  of  the  streets  of  Cork.  And  then,  all  of 
a  sudden,  there  sprang  into  his  I'ecollection  a  phrase  in  one  of 
Kitty's  letters,  written  long  ago  when  she  was  in  Dublin — 
' '  Willie,  there's  a  man  bothering  me  with  bouquets. "  His  face 
grew  red.  He  stumbled  on  with  his  reading.  But  the  redness 
of  his  face  was  caused  by  anger  with  himself  that  this  recollec- 
tion could  annoy  him.  He  had  no  time  to  argue  the  matter 
with  himself;  he  was  reading  about  the  Arctic  zone.  Some- 
times Mrs.  Chetwynd  said,  "Poor  fellows,  how  they  must  have 
enjoyed  that  Christmas  feast !"  or,  ' '  Dear  me,  that  was  a  narrow 
escape !"  and  he  had  to  read  on  and  on,  with  the  streets  of 
Cork,  instead  of  Inisheen,  thrusting  themselves  in  as  a  back- 
ground to  all  his  hurried,  staccato,  agonized  thinking. 

So  glad  he  was  when  that  hour  of  unimaginable  torture 
was  over,  and  he  could  rush  out  into  the  night  to  wrestle  with 
the  demons  that  were  seeking  to  devour  him.  He  would  not 
face  them,  for  he  would  not  acknowledge  their  existence.  He 
would  not  admit  to  himself  that  he  could  have  any  doubts  of 
Kitty's  love,  her  faith,  and  honor.  He  hurried  on  his  way, 
persuading  himself  that  he  was  sorry  for  Andy's  waiting  there 
alone.  It  was  kind  of  Dr.  Bude  to  have  interested  himself 
in  John  Ross,  and  to  have  got  some  friend  to  offer  to  take  two 
more  sketches.  Ross  must  see  Andy  the  Hopper,  and  make  a 
drawing  of  him.  Ross  might  make  a  little  copy  of  it,  and  he 
would  send  that  to  Kitty  to  amuse  her — to  Kitty  who  was  so 
lonely  away  up  there  on  the  hill.  "Just  tell  them  there's 
a  poor  girl  in  Ireland  who  is  breaking  her  heart  for  your 
sake" — that  was  what  she  had  written.  As  for  any  one  send- 
ing her  bouquets,  why  not  ?  What  more  natural  ?  They 
threw  them  to  her  on  the  concert  stage ;  why  not  send  them  ? 


196  SHANDON  BELLS. 

She  had  not  even  seen  the  man.  How  could  they  know  that 
Kitty  was  married  ah-eady ;  that  her  vow  had  been  registered 
in  the  unseen  world ;  that  her  faithfulness  had  been  celebrated 
in  tlie  great  hall  where  the  little  people  sounded  their  silver 
gongs,  and  the  care  of  "  Catherine"  was  given  over  to  them  ? 
He  knew  and  she  knew ;  that  was  enough ;  the  outside  world 
might  go  its  way.  "Let  this  be  a  love-night,"  Kitty  had  said, 
down  by  the  running  water.  She  could  scarcely  be  got  to  re- 
peat the  curse;  she  knew  there  never  would  be  any  occasion 
for  that.  And  to  speak  of  poor  Kitty  as  having  been  jilted ! 
Well,  no  matter.  He  and  she  knew ;  the  little  ringlets  round 
her  ears  had  heard  their  secrets;  the  outside  world  might  go 
its  way. 

From  these  dreams,  that  seemed  to  gi^ow  brighter  and  bright- 
er the  faster  he  walked,  he  was  awakened  by  his  arrival  at 
his  lodging,  and  the  necessity  of  supplying  Andy  with  some 
supper  and  a  bed  in  the  neighborhood.  There  was  no  diffi- 
culty about  either.  At  supper  (John  Eoss  could  not  be  found, 
or  he  would  have  been  invited  to  join)  Andy  insisted  on  ob- 
serving the  etiquette  of  the  luncheons  on  the  mountain. 
That  is  to  say,  he  would  wait  about  until  the  young  master  had 
finished — helping  now  and  again  to  hand  things  as  well  as  he 
knew.  Then,  when  he  had  followed,  and  disposed  of  a  hasty 
meal,  he  had  no  objection  to  light  a  pipe  and  chat  on  the  or- 
dinary familiar  terms. 

But  all  the  fascination  had  gone  from  Andy  the  Hop- 
per's gossip.  He  found  the  young  master  sorely  distraught ; 
more  than  that,  he  seemed  to  become  impatient  from  time 
to  time,  as  though  he  could  not  bear  having  his  thoughts  dis- 
turbed. 

"Sure,  Masther  Willie,"  said  Andy  at  length,  "there  was 
nothing  to  vex  ye  in  the  shtory  that  Corney  Malone  brought 
back  from  Cork — bad  luck  to  the  omadhaun ! — " 

"  Oh,  hold  your  tongue,  Andy!"  said  Fitzgerald,  rising  and 
going  to  the  window.  "It  is  still  raining.  See  here,  now. 
Will  you  be  able  to  make  your  way  back  to  Limehouse  to- 
morrow ?" 

"  Yerra,  your  honor,  as  I  came  here,  I  can  go  back." 

"If  there's  any  sun,  you  can  make  straight  south  till  you 
meet  the  river.     If  there  isn't,  ask  the  nearest  way.     Then 


AN  APPARITION.  197 

you'll  find  yourself  near  Chelse  apier;  and  the  boat  will  take 
you  down.     Can  you  remember  that,  now  ?" 

"Sure  we'll  shpake  of  it  in  the  marnin,  your  honor,"  said 
Andy,  who  was  very  comfortable  now  by  the  fire. 

"  I  sha'n't  see  you  in  the  morning,"  said  Fitzgerald,  briefly. 
"I  am  going  away  from  London  for  a  day  or  two — " 

' '  The  Lord  be  marcif  ul  to  us,  Masther  Willie ;  but  is  it  bad 
news  ye've  got?" 

"No,  no.  I  am  coming  back  in  a  day  or  two — long  before 
the  Molly  Bawn  can  get  in  her  cargo.  I'll  find  you  out  at 
Limehouse,  and  bring  you  back  here.  I'll  have  your  portrait 
l^ainted,  Andy.     But  where's  the  jacket  with  the  red  sleeves  ?" 

"Sure  I  thought  if  your  honor  wanted  a  sarviut,  'twasn't 
the  ould  jacket  you'd  be  af  ther  wishing  to  have  about  the  house. 
But  that  was  the  jacket  that  tased  the  bull  into  the  bog — d'ye 
mind  that,  Masther  Willie  ?" 

"Don't  I!" 

This  resolution  of  his  once  taken — that,  come  what  might, 
he  would  start  by  the  Irish  mail  in  the  morning,  and  take  the 
long  journey  to  Cork,  and  seek  out  Kitty,  just  for  a  moment  of 
holding  her  two  shoulders  and  gazing  into  the  beautiful,  soft 
eyes — Andy's  gossip  seemed  far  more  bearable.  What  was  not 
bearable  was  that,  amid  all  the  vague  thoughts  conjured  up  by 
this  aimless  talking,  now  and  again  his  heart  should  stop  short 
suddenly,  as  if  there  was  something  he  dared  not  face.  He 
could  not  banish  from  him  the  consciousness  that,  however  he 
might  argue  himself  out  of  foolish  doubt  in  the  daytime,  in 
the  night  dark  things  would  occupy  his  mind.  And  Kitty's 
eyes  were  so  loving  they  would  have  no  reproach  in  them,  if 
he  went  to  her  and  asked  her  to  help  him  to  banish  forever  this 
ghastly  nightmare.  Just  to  take  her  hand  for  a  moment — that 
would  be  enough.  Was  it  not  the  hand  he  had  held  over  the 
little  stream  running  down  to  the  Blackwater  and  the  sea  ? 


198  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

STORM  AND  CALM. 

This  was  a  strange  setting-  out  to  go  and  see  Kitty.  Where 
was  the  gladness  of  it  ?  Why  should  there  be  fear,  and  a 
touch  of  shame,  and  a  hundred  horrible  distractions  and  sug- 
gestions, instead  of  the  simple  joyousness  of  the  thought  that 
soon  he  would  have  Kitty's  love-lit  eyes  regarding  him  ?  He 
had  not  slept  much  that  night.  Long  before  there  was  any 
need  he  had  dressed  and  gone  out,  making  his  way  to  the  sta- 
tion through  the  dark  empty  sti^eets.  In  the  cold  railway  car- 
riage he  sat  distraught ;  the  spectacle  of  the  gray  dawn  disclos- 
ing itself  over  the  sleeping  landscape  had  no  interest  for  him. 
He  was  as  one  in  a  dream. 

And  then  sometimes  he  would  ask  himself  sharp  and  angry 
questions.  Supposing  this  rumor  to  be  true,  had  he  not  him- 
self to  blame  ?  Why  had  he  ever  left  Cork  ?  What  had  the 
wretched  ambition  to  play  a  part  in  literature  to  do  with  the 
happiness  of  his  life  ?  Why  had  he  been  content  to  live  in  a 
fool's  paradise  in  London,  when  he  ought  to  have  been  by  Kit- 
ty's side  ?  Was  it  not  his  place  ?  But  he  must  needs  go  and 
leave  her  alone — she  young  and  tender-eyed,  and  wandering 
from  one  town  to  another.  How  could  that  fool  of  a  woman 
be  a  proper  guardian  for  her  ?  And  what  more  natural  that 
here  or  there  some  one  should  wish  to  pay  Kitty  some  atten- 
tion, she  was  so  quick  in  sympathy,  so  gentle-hearted,  with 
"her  young  eyes  still  wounding  where  they  looked"? 

And  then  again  he  reproached  himself  for  entertaining  for 
a  moment  the  monstrous  supposition  that  his  faithful  Kitty, 
who  had  sworn  her  love  to  him  over  the  brook  on  that  won- 
derful moon-lit  night,  should  encourage  the  attentions  of  any 
one.  And  how  was  he  going  to  approach  her  ?  How  make  an 
excuse  for  appearing  in  Audley  Place  ?  Should  he  play  the 
spy,  then  ?    This  was  a  strange  setting  out  to  go  and  see  Kitty. 

But  wheia  he  got  near  to  Holyhead  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
sea  made  his  heart  leap  up.     Had  not  these  gloomy  fancies 


STORM   AND   CALM.  199 

and  forebodings  been  tlie  product  of  a  town  life  V  The  cold  sea 
air  seemed  to  drive  them  away.  Of  course  he  should  meet 
Kitty  as  of  old ;  and  they  would  talk  about  Inisheen ;  and  if 
the  winter  roads  were  rather  too  muddy  for  country  walks, 
they  would  be  quite  content  with  the  wide  pavements  of  the 
town,  and  would  be  happy  enough  in  the  South  Mall,  or  in  St. 
Patrick's  Street,  or  the  Mardyke  Parade.  Kitty's  warm  little 
hand  would  be  on  his  arm.  They  would  talk  about  their  fu- 
ture life  together.  Would  she  look  up  trustingly,  or  look 
down  shyly,  when  he  told  her  of  the  quaint  little  house  by  the 
river  with  its  wood-work  of  white  and  green  ? 

He  grew  so  hopeful  that  he  had  even  time  to  think  of  John 
Ross,  and  to  wish  that  he  also  were  on  board  this  gi'eat  steamer. 
Would  not  these  wonders  be  sufficient  for  him  ?  For  at  one 
moment  they  were  slowly  steaming  through  a  fog  that  was 
suffused  with  a  yellow  sunlight— the  fog-horn  booming  and 
answering  similar  warnings  from  ships  that  were  invisible — 
and  then  again  they  would  emerge  suddenly  into  perfectly 
clear  space,  the  sea  quite  smooth  and  glassy  and  blue,  perhaps 
some  massive  brig  or  heavy  schooner  lying  motionless  on  the 
mirror-like  surface  with  all  its  idle  sails  accurately  reflected. 
It  was  a  tedious  crossing  on  the  whole.  Sometimes  they  stole 
out  from  one  of  these  encircling  fogs  to  find  another  steamer, 
or  motionless  sailing  vessel,  most  dangerously  near.  But  be- 
fore they  reached  Kingstown  they  had  left  the  fogs  completely 
behind  them,  and  the  sun  was  shining  pleasantly  on  the  harbor 
and  shipping  and  houses,  as  if  his  native  country  were  giving 
him  a  friendly  and  smiling  welcome. 

In  the  long  journey,  moreover,  away  to  the  south,  he  had 
distraction  in  the  society  of  a  middle-aged  priest,  a  person  of 
meagre  aspect  and  of  sallow  complexion,  who  had  gray  eyes 
with  black  eyebi'ows  and  eyelashes.  Fitzgerald  very  soon 
found  that  these  gray  eyes  were  callable  of  expressing  a  good 
deal  of  passionate  feeling — especially  anger.  The  priest  was  a 
perfervid  politician,  and  his  language  was  far  from  temperate. 
Now  Fitzgerald  was  scarcely  a  politician  at  all.  The  Cork 
Chronicle  had  not  seen  fit  to  take  the  affairs  of  the  Empire 
under  its  care.  At  Inisheen,  again,  he  had  genei*ally  preferred 
to  the  Tim  or  Pat  who  skulked  out  of  the  town  for  midnight 
drill  (frightening  the  wild  fowl  besides)  the  Tim  or  Pat  who 


200  SHANDON  BELLS. 

worked  contentedly  at  his  little  farm,  and  had  a  pleasant 
"good-morrow''  for  the  passer-by,  and  knew  whereabouts  a 
hare  was  to  be  found.  He  had  his  doubts  about  the  wonderful 
magic  to  be  wrought  by  "  Repeal,"  and  had  a  vague  sort  of  be- 
lief that,  even  under  the  present  system,  an  Irishman,  if  he 
condescended  to  work,  had  just  as  good  a  chance  of  getting  on 
as  a  Scotchman  or  an  Englishman.  It  will  be  seen  that  these 
were  not  very  definite  convictions;  and  this  good  father  got 
himself  into  white  heat  in  showing  Fitzgerald  how  shameful 
it  was  of  an  Irishman  to  be  so  indifferent.  Fitzgerald  took  no 
shame  to  himself.  Politics  had  not  been  much  in  his  way.  A 
young  man  who  has  to  earn  his  own  living  must  think  of  that 
first  before  proceeding  to  look  after  the  affaii'S  of  the  country 
(unless,  indeed,  he  is  the  younger  son  of  a  nobleman,  when 
he  may  have  an  opportunity  of  accomplishing  the  former  at  the 
expense  of  the  latter),  and  though  Fitzgerald  was  quite  willing 
to  listen  to  this  impassioned  clerical — and  rather  glad,  pei^haps, 
to  have  the  tedium  of  the  long  railway  journey  so  relieved — it 
was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should  suddenly  acquire  an  in- 
tense interest  in  party  strife.  Indeed,  it  may  afford  an  illus- 
tration of  certain  influences  that  had  been  at  woi'k  on  him  to 
say  that  while  the  priest  was  denouncing  the  action  of  the  gov- 
ernment as  having  been  the  direct  and  obvious  cause  of  Irish 
disaffection,  Fitzgerald,  regarding  the  gray  eyes,  was  wonder- 
ing whether  any  color  or  any  artistic  skill  could  convey  to  can- 
vas the  curious  light  that  glowed  there. 

But  as  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  Cork — it  was  now 
the  middle  of  the  night— neither  political  discussion  nor  ar- 
tistic contemplation  was  sufficient  to  distract  his  mind.  He 
scarcely  heard  what  the  good  man  said.  He  assented  to  any- 
thing. He  was  thinking  of  his  meeting  with  Kitty  in  the 
morning,  and  his  heart  was  heavy  with  fear — fear  of  he  scarce- 
ly knew  what.  It  was  so  strange  that  he  should  be  afraid 
of  meeting  Kitty !  Would  she  believe  that  ?  Would  she  see 
it  ?     What  explanation  could  he  make  ? 

Then  he  thought  of  her  recent  letters.  It  is  true  that,  once 
or  twice,  she  had  seemed  to  grow  despondent,  and  perhaps 
even  a  little  bit  tired  of  waiting;  but  for  the  most  part  she 
had  written  as  cheerfully  and  kindly  as  ever.  What  reason, 
then,  could  he  give  for  this  sudden  visit?     Could  lie  confess  to 


STORM  AND  CALM.  201 

her  that  he  had  formed  suspicions  of  her,  and  that  on  the  au- 
thority of  a  rumor  brought  by  such  a  messenger  as  Andy  the 
Hopper  ? 

' '  You  don't  believe  my  letters,  then  ?"  would  she  not  say  ? 
* '  You  consider  I  have  been  playing  the  hypocrite  ?  My  af- 
fection for  you  was  a  pretense.  You  can  not  trust  what  I 
say  ;  you  have  to  come  over  and  see  for  youi*self ;  it  is  thus 
you  recognize  the  sacredness  of  the  vow  that  we  swore  in  the 
glen  ?  That  is  the  importance  you  yourself  attach  to  it ;  that 
it  is  so  slight  a  tie  it  can  have  melted  away  already;  you 
come  over  to  see  who  it  is  that  has  so  soon  come  between  us  two !" 

How  could  he  withstand  the  rej)roachful  look  of  Kitty's 
eyes  ?  How  could  he  show  to  her  how  weak  had  been  his 
faith  in  her  ?  If  it  were  so  easily  snapped  on  so  slight  a  strain, 
how  could  it  withstand  the  rougher  usage,  the  long  wear  and 
tear  of  the  world  ? 

But  then  Kitty  was  so  honest  and  so  kind.  If  he  were  quite 
frank  with  her,  and  told  her  that  his  better  reason  knew  how 
groundless  these  fears  were,  and  that  only  to  show  himself 
how  absurd  they  were  had  he  taken  this  long  journey ;  if  he 
were  to  throw  himself  on  her  mercy ;  if  he  were  to  say,  ' '  Kitty, 
laugh  at  me  as  you  like,  but  lonely  living  in  London  has 
weakened  my  nerves,  and  I  can't  hear  anything  about  you 
but  my  heart  jumps,  so  here  I  am,  just  to  have  a  look  at  you, 
and  to  laugh  at  myself,  if  you  like,  for  my  idle  fi-ight" — would 
Kitty  laugh  ?  Not  she.  She  was  too  kind  for  that.  Her 
warm  and  gentle  heart  had  no  malice  in  it  at  all.  She  would 
say:  "Then  look  at  me.  Look  down  into  my  eyes.  Can  you 
find  anythmg  but  love,  and  truth,  and  constancy  ?" 

On  arriving  at  Cork  he  went  to  the  Imperial  Hotel ;  it  was 
between  two  and  three  in  the  morning.  He  was  very  tired, 
and  he  slept  well.  On  awaking,  he  could  not  understand 
where  he  was— for  a  second;  the  next  second  his  heart  almost 
stood  still :  he  had  to  face  Kitty. 

Then,  if  so,  the  sooner  the  better.  When  he  went  out  into 
the  wide  thoroughfares  on  this  quiet  Sunday  morning,  they 
were  shining  just  as  cheerfully  in  the  sunJight  as  on  that  for- 
mer Sunday  morning  when  his  life  seemed  to  be  rejoicing  with- 
in him  at  the  thought  of  his  climbing  the  steep  little  thor- 
oughfai'e  at  the   top  of  which  Kitty  lodged.     Now  lie  kept 

9* 


202  SHANDON  BELLS. 

his  eyes  about  him,  as  if  people  might  be  watching  him. 
Would  they  know  what  had  brought  him  to  Cork  ?  There 
might  be  a  friend  of  Kitty's  somewhei'e  about,  who  would 
wonder  to  see  him.  Perhaps —  But  no;  he  could  not  con- 
sider that  possible. 

And  yet  it  was  wonderful  to  him  that  perhaps  so  late  as 
even  yesterday  Kitty  had  been  looking  at  these  very  quays 
and  boats,  and  had  crossed  this  bridge,  and  had  been  oppo- 
site yonder  house.  That  was  the  interest  of  the  scene  to  him. 
John  Ross's  teaching  was  forgotten ;  he  was  not  thinking  of  the 
color  of  the  sea,  or  of  the  greens  and  grays  and  whites  of  this 
steep  little  thoroughfare.  He  had  scarcely  a  look  for  Shandon 
tower  when  he  had  climbed  the  hill ;  he  did  not  notice  the 
hoar-frost  on  the  ground  where  the  sun  had  not  reached  it, 
nor  the  extent  of  wintry  landscape,  with  its  leafless  trees  and 
hedges.  He  only  knew  that  not  a  soul  was  visible  along  the 
little  terrace,  and  that  he  dared  not  go  near  tbe  house.  He 
must  see  Kitty  alone,  and  here. 

He  waited  and  waited,  walking  this  way  and  that,  but  not 
passing  the  house.  The  clock  in  Shandon  tower  over  there 
struck  half  past  ten ;  but  still  she  did  not  come.  Why  should 
she  ?  No  country  walks  were  possible  now ;  no  doubt  the  wet 
weather  had  left  the  lanes  full  of  mud.  And  if  she  were  not 
to  stir  forth  at  all — bright  as  the  morning  happened  to  be  ? 

Then  the  whole  aspect  of  the  world  changed:  Kitty  was 
there.  The  day  seemed  fuller  and  richer ;  delight  took  posses- 
sion of  him ;  he  lost  fear.  Kitty  did  not  see  him  at  first ;  she 
looked  abroad  over  the  country  as  she  came  down  to  the  little 
iron  gate;  and  as  she  came  along  he  noticed  that  she  carried 
a  prayer-book  in  her  hand. 

"Kitty!" 

She  looked  up — with  something  of  fear,  as  he  thought,  in  her 
startled  glance. 

He  seized  her  hands,  and  kissed  her. 

"You  are  not  glad  to  see  me,  then  ?"  he  said,  cheerfully. 

"  Well,  but— but— "  she  said.    ' '  But  nothing  has  happened  ?" 

"Nothing,"  said  he.     "I  have  come  to  see  you,  that  is  all." 

"You  have  given  me  a  great  fright,"  said  she,  and  she  was 
still  a  little  pale.  "Why  did  you  not  write  to  me  ?  What 
is  the  meaning  of  it  ?" 


STORM  AND  CALM.  203 

He  was  so  delighted  with  regarding  her — the  pretty  outline 
of  her  cheek  and  chin,  the  soft,  timid  blackness  of  her  eyes, 
the  bits  of  curls  that  were  around  her  small  ears — that  he 
scarcely  heard  what  she  said. 

"  You  have  not  altered  a  bit,  Kitty,"  said  he  in  his  gladness. 
' '  You  are  just  as  much  my  Kitty  as  ever — and  ever  so  much 
nicer  to  look  at  than  your  portrait.  It  hasn't  been  satisfac- 
tory, Kitty,  trying  to  get  that  i)orti*ait  to  speak  to  me  of  an 
evening  when  I  was  quite  alone.  It  looked  at  me,  but  not 
as  you  look  now.  But  still — why  do  you  look  so — so — so — 
Kitty,  are  you  not  glad  to  see  me  ?" 

"  Well,  of  course,"  said  she,  but  not  with  the  greatest  cordial- 
ity. ' '  You  need  not  have  frightened  me.  It  is  a  Jack-in-the- 
box  kind  of  way  of  coming  to  see  one.    Why  did  you  not  write  ?" 

"Well,  the  surprise — "  He  could  not  tell  her  the  truth; 
nay,  there  was  happily  no  need  for  him  to  tell  it  her.  He 
had  looked  in  her  eyes ;  that  was  enough. 

"And  the  cost,  too,  I  suppose,"  said  she.  "Do  you  think 
it  is  very  wise,  Willie,  to  throw  away  money  like  that  ?  I  did 
not  understand  you  wei'e  getting  on  so  very  well." 

He  stared  at  her  in  astonishment;  not  hui-t  or  vexed,  but 
simply  wondering. 

"  Kitty,  you  talk  as  if  you  really  were  not  glad  that  I  have 
come  to  see  you.     You  don't  talk  like  my  Kitty  at  all." 

"Of  course  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  "But  people  can't  always 
have  what  they  like.  I  really  don't  see  that  it  is  wise  to  go 
throwing  away  money  on  these  constant  trips — especially  in 
the  case  of  people  whose  future  doesn't  look  overbright." 

"  Constant  trips,  Kitty!  This  is  the  second  since  I  went  to 
London ;  and  the  first  was  eight  or  nine  months  ago — " 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  it  ?" 

"There  is  no  use  in  it — there  is  no  use  in  it,  Kitty,"  said 
he,  rather  bewildered.  "  And  if  I  had  thought  that  this  was 
to  be  my  reception — " 

"  Oh,  but  we  are  not  going  to  quarrel,"  said  she,  with  some- 
thing more  of  her  ordinary  kindness  in  her  manner.  "  If  you 
have  been  extravagant,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  I  am 
going  to  church;  I  suppose  you  will  come  with  me?" 

She  put  her  hand  in  his  arm,  in  the  old  familiar  way ;  he 
could  not  but  take  it  and  pat  it. 


204  SHANDON   BELLS. 

"  I  will  go  to  church  with  you  if  you  like,  Kitty;  but  might 
we  not  have  a  walk  and  a  chat  instead  ?  There  must  be  a  lot 
to  say  after  such  a  long  separation." 

"We  can  not  walk  about,"  she  said;  "the  roads  are  too 
wet.  Besides,  I  told  Miss  Patience  I  was  going  to  church. 
And  besides,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh,  "we  have  not 
been  quite  idle  in  letter- writing,  Willie;  there  can  not  be  so 
very  much  to  say." 

"Oh,  very  well,  Kitty.  I  will  go  to  church  with  you;  I 
don't  cai'e  much  where  we  go,  so  long  as  I  am  by  your  side. 
And  when  you  have  been  to  church,  Kitty,  you  will  be  a  little 
more  gentle  and  civil  in  your  manner." 

"  But  I  am  gentleness  and  civility  itself,"  she  remonsti'ated. 
"It  is  you  who  are  reckless  and  wild.  You  don't  care  what 
any  freak  costs  you.  I  believe  I  was  mad  when  I  engaged  my- 
self to  you." 

"No  use  saying  that  now,  Kitty,  it  is  past  praying  for." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

They  were  on  much  more  friendly  terms  now.  Perhaps 
Kitty  had  only  resented  her  having  been  frightened.  It  was 
quite  like  old  times  for  them  to  be  walking  arm  in  arm ;  and 
the  bell  in  Shandon  tower  was  tolling,  and  the  people  were 
coming' along  the  various  thoroughfares  to  the  church. 

" By-the- way ,"  said  he,  "we  have  never  settled  in  what 
church  we  shall  be  married,  Kitty." 

"  That's  being  rather  too  j^articular.  That's  looking  rather 
too  far  forward,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  he. 

"You  have  discovered  the  gold  mine,  then  ?  Is  that  what 
you  came  to  tell  me  about,  Willie  ?''  she  said,  with  an  odd  kind 
of  smile. 

But  they  were  entering  the  church  porch,  and  there  was  no 
possibility  for  further  speech.  Sitting  there  beside  her,  in- 
deed, he  did  not  complain  of  the  enforced  silence.  To  be  near 
her  was  enough ;  to  have  tight  hold  of  her  hand ;  to  hear  the 
sweet  voice  join  in  the  singing.  Perhaps  he  did  not  listen  too 
attentively  to  the  service  or  the  sermon.  Dreams  of  what  the 
world  might  hold  for  him  and  her  together  would  come  in 
from  time  to  time.  The  imaginations  and  ambitions  of  youth 
are  stimulated  rather  than  retarded  by  the  hushed  and  myste- 


STORM  AND  CALM.  205 

rious  repose  of  a  sacred  building;  the  vague  dim  background 
is  convenient  for  the  painting  of  wonderful  pictures.  And  it 
seemed  to  him  that  that  beautiful  future,  which  he  could  adorn 
and  color  at  will,  had  once  more  and  suddenly  been  presented 
to  him.  These  horrible  doubts  had  been  left  behind.  They 
vanished  when  he  took  Kitty's  hand  in  his.  There  was  no 
need  for  explanation  or  confession ;  Kitty  and  he  were  togeth- 
er again;  life  had  grown  full  again  of  joy  and  hope.  And 
London,  with  its  struggles  and  mortifications  and  disappoint- 
ments, was  also  forgotten.  Shandon  church,  with  Kitty's  hand 
in  his,  left  him  no  memories  of  the  Fulham  Road.  It  was  as  if 
it  had  only  been  the  other  night  that  he  and  she  pledged  their 
vows  to  each  other  over  the  running  stream. 

When  they  came  out  again  she  said  : 

' '  Now  you  will  come  and  have  some  dinner  with  us,  Willie ; 
and  you  must  try  and  be  civil  to  Miss  Patience." 

"  I  would  rather  go  for  a  walk,  Kitty,"  said  he.  "  We  have 
said  nothing  to  each  other  yet." 

"  What  is  there  to  say  that  we  have  not  said  before  ?"  she 
answered,  somewhat  saucily,  "or  that  we  can't  say  in  letters  ?" 

"Your  letters  are  very  nice,  Kitty,  but  they  don't  speak  as 
well  as  your  eyes." 

"Oh,  I  assure  you,"  she  said,  gravely,  "I  am  going  to  take 
my  eyes  with  me  wherever  I  go.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  shall 
have  my  eyes  as  much  with  me  when  we  are  sitting  down  at 
the  table  as  if  we  were  wandering  through  these  muddy  lanes." 

No,  she  would  not  be  j)ersuaded.  She  thought  there  would 
not  even  be  time  for  a  stroll  down  to  the  river-side  and  back. 
It  was  too  cold  for  walking.     She  was  rather  tired. 

' '  Tired !"  said  he,  in  amazement ;  ' '  what  can  have  tired  you  ?" 

"You  are  so  pertinacious!"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience. "You  want  to  argue.  You  want  explanations. 
When  I  tell  you  I  am  tired,  isn't  that  enough  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  it  is  enough,"  said  he,  gently.  "And  I  think 
you  must  be  tired." 

The  subtlety  of  this  reproof  reached  her.  She  colored  a 
little. 

"  I  want  to  be  kind  to  you,  but  you're  always  quarrelling!" 
she  said. 

And  then  she  laughed,  and  looked  so  pretty  and  confused 


206  SHANDON  BELLS. 

and  merry  all  at  once  that  lie  could  have  kissed  her  there  and 
then,  though  all  Cork  might  stare. 

"I  declai'e  it's  enough  to  i)ut  anybody  out  of  temper,"  said 
she,  with  all  her  ordinary  frankness  and  audacity.  ' '  Here  am 
I  supposed  to  he  cultivating  the  greatest  admiration  for  some- 
body who  is  away  in  London,  working  hard  on  my  account. 
It  is  so  self-denying,  don't  you  see;  and  you  ought  to  remem- 
ber the  absent ;  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  And  all  at  once  he  turns 
up  on  a  holiday  trip — frightening  you,  to  begin  with;  and  not 
a  word  of  excuse  or  reason." 

"I  have  quite  sufficient  reason,  Kitty,"  said  he.  "The  de- 
light of  listening  to  your  impertinence  is  quite  enough." 

"I  am  not  impertinent  at  all;  I  am  talking  common-sense — 
and  that's  a  thing  you  don't  know  much  about,  Master  Willie. 
The  fact  is,  these  people  at  Inisheen  spoiled  you.  You  think 
you  should  have  everything  you  want.  Now  that  isn't  quite 
possible  in  this  fine  world." 

"Kitty,  you  have  been  studying  the  Poor  Mail's  Annual,  or 
whatever  the  book  is.  You  are  fearfully  wise  this  morning. 
This  is  the  second  time  you  have  informed  me  that  people 
can't  get  everything  they  want ;  and  the  truth  of  the  aphorism 
is  more  remai-kable  than  its  novelty — " 

"Oh,  dear  me,  is  that  the  way  we  talk  in  London  ?''  said  she. 

"There's  only  one  thing  I  want,"  said  he,  not  heeding  her; 
"  and  I've  got  it,  hard  and  fast." 

"But  you  need  not  break  my  fingers  with  your  arm.  I 
sha'n't  be  able  to  practice  to-morrow.  What  is  that  in  your 
breast  pocket  that  hurts  so  ?" 

"That  ?"  said  he.  "It  would  be  odd  if  that  could  hm't  any- 
body.    It's  your  portrait,  Kitty.     I  had  a  case  made  for  it." 

"Let  me  see  it." 

He  took  out  the  case  and  showed  it  her.  She  only  looked  at 
the  outside. 

"  Well,  I  do  declare  !  The  extravagance!  And  this  is  the 
way  we  are  supposed  to  be  saving  money  in  London — buying 
anything  that  touches  our  fancy,  or  rattling  away  on  a  holi- 
day ?  That  is  just  like  you  Irish  people.  I  see  more  and  more 
of  it  every  day.  You  can  deny  yourselves  nothing.  You 
must  always  spend  more  than  you've  got,  and  then  expect  the 
government  to  keep  you — " 


STORM   AND  CALM.  207 

"Who  has  been  giving  you  lessons  in  political  economy, 
Kitty  ?"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  case  from  her  and  put  it  in 
another  pocket.      ' '  You  have  become  fearfully  practical — " 

"  That's  what  you  will  never  be,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh 
— real  or  affected. 

' '  I  did  not  think  you  would  consider  that  much  of  an  extrav- 
agance," said  he,  "getting  a  nice  cover  for  your  photograph." 

"But  coming  away  over  hei'e — " 

"  That  seems  quite  to  distress  you — " 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  she  said — they  were  now  going  up  to  the 
door  of  the  house,  and  she  spoke  in  a  moi'e  matter-of-fact  way. 
"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be  glad.     It  shows  you  can  afford  it." 

As  he  entered  the  little  passage  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  fe- 
male figure  flying  upstairs ;  then  Kitty  asked  him  to  go  into 
the  adjacent  parlor  and  wait  till  she  had  put  off'  her  things; 
then  he  was  left  alone. 

This  meeting  with  Kitty  had  not  been  like  that  other  meet- 
ing that  he  so  clearly  remembered.  Then  she  had  clung  to 
him,  crying;  she  had  begged  of  him  never  to  leave  her  again; 
she  had  offered  to  live  on  nothing  rather  than  that  he  should 
go  away  from  her.  Now  she  had  grown  so  practical;  she 
seemed  to  wish  him  back  in  London ;  it  was  the  cost  of  his  visit, 
not  the  surprise  and  delight  of  it,  that  seemed  to  occupy  her 
mind.  But  still,  here  he  was  in  the  little  chamber  that  was 
so  familiar;  there  was  Kitty's  piano,  and  the  dishevelled  mass 
of  music  that  she  never  would  keep  in  order;  there  were  the 
books  he  had  sent  her  (he  knew  better  than  to  look  whether 
the  edges  were  cut ;  disappointments  come  easily  enough  with- 
out people  hunting  after  them) ;  thei*e  was  the  crystal  paper- 
weight in  which  Kitty  had  put  his  photograph,  saying  the 
while:  "  Well,  so  long  as  that  is  before  me  while  I  am  writing, 
I  guess  I  shall  look  sharp  after  my  grammar.  I  can  see  the 
scowl  beginning  already.  '  None  of  your  impertinence,  miss. 
Can't  you  spell  the  English  language  yet  f  You  think  that 
is  clever,  do  you  V  So  there's  a  place  for  you,  Mr.  School- 
master Killjoy;  and  when  I  want  a  scolding  I'll  come  for  it." 

The  little  maid-servant  came  in  and  laid  the  cloth;  and 
then  Miss  Patience  appeared. 

Miss  Patience  received  him  with  much  placid  civility.  She 
seemed  more  mysterious  and  hawk-like  than  ever,  and  seemed 


208  SHANDON  BELLS. 

to  take  it  for  granted  that  he,  having  been  so  much  longer  in 
London,  should  know  proportionately  more  of  the  secret  things 
going  on  in  politics.  Fitzgei'ald  had  to  explain  to  her  that  he 
had  had  but  little  to  do  with  politics ;  even  the  one  editor  he  had 
met  in  London  he  had  not  seen  since  last  he  had  visited  Cork. 

"I  heard  you  were  not  succeeding,"  remarked  Miss  Patience, 
calmly. 

"  Succeeding !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sort  of  start  (for  he  had 
not  looked  at  his  struggles  in  London  in  that  way).  "Well, 
I  have  been  trying  many  things,  and  it  is  impossible  to  say 
■whether  this  or  that  may  succeed.  I  can  not  expect  everything 
at  once.  There  are  many  openings  in  literary  and  newspaper 
work ;  of  course  one  must  wait.  I  can't  say  I  have  either 
succeeded  or  not  succeeded." 

"Ah,"  said  Miss  Patience,  complacently.  "That  is  all  so 
unlike  commerce.  Commei'ce  is  secui-e.  Just  think  of  send- 
ing a  telegram  to  Odessa — a  few  words ;  you  get  a  reply  back 
the  same  day;  you  walk  down  to  the  Exchange  and  buy 
something;  and  you  have  earned  £2000.  Two  thousand 
pounds ! — with  so  little  trouble — " 

But  here  Kitty  came  in ;  and  she  had  dressed  so  prettily  and 
neatly!  He  could  not  help  regarding  her  wnth  admiring 
looks ;  and  Miss  Kitty  was  a  little  bit  shy  and  conscious  ;  and 
so  they  sat  down  to  this  middle-day  dinner — London,  black 
phantoms,  and  disappointments  all  shut  out  and  forgotten. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Kitty,"  said  he,  lightly,  "  that  a  commercial 
spirit  has  come  over  this  neighborhood  since  I  was  here  last. 
You  have  been  lecturing  on  political  economy  all  the  morn- 
ing; and  now  Miss  Patience  tells  me  how  easy  it  is  to  make 
£2000  by  merely  sending  a  telegram  to  Odessa.  It  appears  to 
me  that  it  might  be  just  as  easy  to  lose  £2000  by  the  use  of  the 
same  machinery." 

Kitty  glanced  at  Miss  Patience  with  a  sort  of  appi-ehensive 
look  he  could  not  undei'stand. 

' '  I  was  observing  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald  that  I  was  sorry  he 
had  not  been  successful  in  London,"  answered  that  lady, 
calmly, 

"And  I  was  saying  that  I  had  neither  been  successful  nor 
non-successful, "  said  Fitzgerald,  cheerfully.  ' '  Of  course  there 
are  a  great  many  things  to  be  tried — " 


STORM  AND  CALM.  209 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course,"  said  Kitty,  hastily,  and  with  a 
touch  of  color  in  her  face.  ' '  Of  course  Miss  Patience  meant 
so  far  only — only  so  far.  We  know  that  it  is  difficult  to — to 
— to  succeed  in  literature — of  course  Miss  Patience  quite  un- 
derstands— " 

If  Miss  Patience  understood,  Fitzgerald  did  not.  Why  this 
embarrassment,  and  this  talk  about  the  advantages  of  com- 
merce, and  this  assumption  that  he  had  tried  literature  in 
London  as  a  means  of  livelihood  and  failed  ? 

Miss  Patience  said,  with  a  gentle  smile : 

"But  when  once  you  have  that  commercial  machinery  of 
which  you  speak,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  how  nice  that  must  be! 
It  goes  on  making  money  for  you ;  you  can  go  away  and 
see  the  world;  your  agents  are  enough.  That  must  be  very 
nice,  that  independence  and  security.  The  literary  man,  even 
the  most  successful,  is  in  so  precarious  a  position.  A  tile  from 
a  roof  knocks  him  senseless ;  his  means  of  livelihood  vanish. 
No  one  else  can  do  his  work  for  him ;  it  is  like  an  artist  be- 
coming blind;  there  is  no  machine  that  can  go  on  indepen- 
dently of  him  to  make  money  for  his  wife  and  children.  Ah, 
there  is  nothing  so  safe  as  that.  Commerce  in  a  commercial 
country  is  a  natural  occupation.     And  it  is  so  safe." 

But  was  it  so  safe  ?  argued  Fitzgei-ald,  somewhat  hotly — 
though  he  scarcely  knew  why,  for  certainly  commerce  had 
never  done  him  any  harm.  If  it  were  so  safe  and  natural  and 
easy  to  make  £2000  by  telegraphing  to  Odessa,  wouldn't  ev- 
erybody be  at  it  ?  Then  look  at  the  common  failures.  Look 
at  the  multitude  of  commercial  men  who  were  living  on  the 
very  edge  of  bankruptcy.  It  was  all  very  well  to  have  such 
a  piece  of  machinery  as  that  that  had  been  mentioned,  but 
what  if  it  happened  to  work  the  wrong  way  ?  What  if  it 
came  back  and  burst  you  ?  No  doubt  it  was  a  good  thing 
if  the  commei'cial  man  could  lay  by  a  provision  for  his  wife 
and  children  ;  but  could  not  the  successful  man  of  letters  do 
that  too  ?  And  as  for  the  tile  from  the  roof,  where  would 
the  commercial  man  be  if  that  hit  him  !  Accidents  were 
al  ways  possible.  What  was  not  possible  was  that  life  should 
be  based  on  idle  calculations.  And  success  or  no  success, 
machinery  or  no  machinery,  as  for  himself,  he  said  proudly, 
he  would  rather  earn  the  plainest  living  by  literature  than 


210  SHANDON  BELLS. 

revel  in  all  the  riches  that  could  be  procured  from  Odessa 
or  anywhere  else. 

Kitty  Avas  the  peace-maker. 

"Oh  yes,  no  doubt,"  said  she  (though  she  seemed  anxious 
to  get  away  from  the  subject  altogether).  ' '  One  would  like  to 
be  what  you  say — I  mean,  it  must  be  a  great  thing  to  be  a 
great  man  of  letters ;  but  there  are  so  few,  and  it  must  be  so 
difficult.  I  am  sure  that  all  Miss  Patience  meant  was  that  it 
must  be  nice  to  have  a  business  going  on  that  leaves  you  free 
and  gives  you  no  anxiety — " 

"I  should  say  thei^e  were  very  few  of  those,"  said  he. 
"Leave  a  business,  and  it  leaves  you — the  proverb  is  common 
among  business  men  themselves.  You  wake  up  some  fine 
morning  and  find  yourself  a  bankrupt." 

"Ah,  very  well,"  said  Kitty,  with  a  sigh,  "those  at  least 
are  very  well  off  who  begin  life  with  a  foi'tune  ready  made  for 
them,  and  have  no  anxiety  about  it." 

"I  don't  know  that,"  said  he;  "the  enjoyment  of  life  is 
work.  I  don't  see  that  people  who  are  securely  rich  are  any 
the  happier  for  it.  And  I  should  not  think  much  of  the  wo- 
man whose  views  of  life  were  colored  by  the  presence  or  ab- 
sence of  money." 

This  was  getting  more  serious.  Kitty  said,  with  a  pleasant 
laugh : 

"There  is  not  much  use  in  our  talking  about  it  anyway; 
for  all  the  money  that  you  and  I  have,  Willie,  or  are  likely 
to  have,  won't  make  nations  fight  about  us.  I  want  you  to 
tell  Miss  Patience  about  all  the  people  3"ou  have  seen  in  London. 
And  is  that  old  lady  really  so  nice  as  you  say  ?  And  what  part 
of  Ban  try  Bay  is  the  house  you  told  me  of,  that  her  nephew 
had  ?  I  looked  in  a  map  for  Boat  of  Garry,  but  could  see 
nothing  of  it.     I  suppose  it  is  a  small  place." 

So  there  was  nothing  further  said  about  the  advantages  of 
commerce  over  literature,  or  the  reverse;  and  presently  Fitz- 
gerald found  himself  being  drawn  by  the  humor  of  the  situation 
into  giving  Miss  Patience  such  dark  hints  about  the  ways  and 
manners  of  the  great  politicians  then  in  power  as  would  no 
doubt  have  astonished  those  much-canvassed  persons.  Kitty 
seemed  greatly  relieved ;  she  listened  pleasantly ;  content  reign- 
ed over  the  modest  banquet.     And  as  for  Fitzgerald,  it  was 


STORM   AND   CALM.  211 

of  little  account  to  him  what  nonsense  he  talked  or  listened 
to,  so  long  as  Kitty  was  in  the  room.  Miss  Patience  was  treat- 
ed with  the  gravest  respect.  From  time  to  time  he  could  steal 
a  glance  at  Kitty's  eyes. 

The  middle-day  dinner  was  long  over,  and  they  had  gathered 
round  the  fire,  when  a  step  was  heard  on  the  little  pathway 
outside,  and  then  a  loud  knock  at  the  door.  Kitty  started,  and 
looked  apprehensively  at  Miss  Patience.  There  was  an  ab- 
solute silence ;  then  some  sounds  in  the  passage,  and  presently 
the  maid-servant  appeared. 

"Mr.  Cobbs,  miss." 

Fitzgerald  was  fairly  stupefied  when  he  saw  this  young  man 
come  into  the  room  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  perfectly 
acquainted  with  both  Kitty  and  Miss  Patience.  He  had  never 
heard  a  word  of  him.  Who  could  he  be  ?  The  next  moment 
he  found  himself  being  introduced  to  the  stranger;  and  these 
two  regarded  each  other  with  scrutiny,  though  the  new-comer 
had  the  advantage  in  calmness.  He  took  a  chair,  put  his  hat 
and  cane  on  the  table,  and  asked  Kitty  if  she  had  been  to 
church  that  morning. 

He  was  apparently  about  twenty  or  one-and-twenty ;  stout, 
rather;  of  middle  height;  with  a  fair  complexion  and  close- 
cropped  yellow  hair ;  he  was  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion, 
and  his  hands  and  feet  were  small.  Anybody  else  would  have 
said  he  was  an  ordinary-looking,  good-looking,  well-dressed 
young  man,  with  perhaps  too  obvious  a  taste  for  jewelry. 
What  Fitzgerald  thought  of  him  and  of  the  circumstances 
need  not  be  put  down  here. 

In  truth,  he  was  too  bewildered  to  have  any  clear  notion  of 
what  he  was  thinking.  But  he  knew  that,  whatever  the  truth 
of  the  matter,  he  could  not  openly  insult  Kitty  by  presuming 
that  anything  was  wrong.  He  resolved  to  be  quite  courte- 
ous to  this  stranger.  Why  should  not  an  idle  young  gentle- 
man pay  an  afternoon  call  ?  He  resolved  to  be  quite  courteous, 
and  clinched  his  hands  behind  his  back  to  keep  liiin  in  re- 
membrance. 

Kitty,  who  appeared  to  have  lost  her  usual  self-confident,  half- 
satirical  manner,  seemed  extraordinarily  eager  to  get  these  two 
to  talk  together.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  had  just  come  over  from  Lon- 
don :  had  Mr.  Cobbs  been  in  London  recently  ?     Both  seemed 


212  SHANDON  BELLS. 

inclined  to  talk  to  her  or  to  Miss  Patience,  but  not  to  each  other ; 
and  the  embarrassment  of  the  situation  was  obviously  increas- 
ing, when  Fitzgerald  determined  to  end  it.  He  saw  his  poor 
little  sweetheart  frightened  and  troubled,  and  he  could  not 
have  that.  With  much  frankness  he  began  to  speak  to  this 
new-comer;  and  as  men  find  politics  their  common  ground  of 
conversation,  he  asked  Mr.  Cobbs  if  he  had  noticed  any  symp- 
toms of  disaflPection  since  his  stay  in  the  country.  Now  this 
was  a  friendly  overture,  but  the  young  man  with  the  fat  fair 
face  and  the  blank  gray  eyes  chose  to  be  rather  uncivil.  He 
began  to  say  things  about  Ireland  and  the  Irish,  which  was  not 
quite  fair,  seeing  that  there  were  three  English  people  to 
one  Irishman.  Moreover,  he  talked  the  ordinary  nonsense 
that  is  talked  by  the  well-fed,  heavy-pursed  Englishman,  who 
lays  down  economical  laws  about  Ireland  without  any  know- 
ledge whatever  of  the  people  or  of  the  agricultural  conditions 
of  the  country.  And  he  was  a  conceited  creature;  he  liked 
to  hear  himself  talk ;  his  platitudes  were  dictatorial  in  tone. 

Fitzgerald  was  getting  wilder  and  wilder,  but  he  kept  his 
hands  tightly  clinched.  And  he  would  not  answer  this  fel- 
low at  all.  He  spoke  to  these  other  two.  He  told  them  what 
he  knew,  what  he  had  seen.  He  described  the  haggard  den- 
izens of  the  bog-land,  living  amid  ague  and  starvation;  he 
described  the  poor  devils  on  the  hill-sides,  trying  to  scrape  a 
living  off  rocky  soil  not  fit  to  support  rabbits;  and  then,  when 
the  bit  of  sour  bog-land  had  been  slowly  reclaimed,  or  the 
potatoes  beginning  to  do  a  little  better  in  the  stone-walled 
inclosure,  the  agents  stepping  in  to  demand  impossible  rents, 
and  the  landlord,  in  London,  or  Venice,  or  Monaco,  knowing 
nothing  about  it,  and  caring  less;  and  then  the  eviction  of 
whole  families — the  shivering  wretches  without  a  bit  of  fire- 
wood, let  alone  a  bit  of  bread.  And  this  was  the  system  under 
which  you  hoped  to  get  a  loyal  and  contented  peasantiy! 
With  the  mass  of  the  people  believing  that  the  landlords  were 
leagued  against  them,  that  the  law  was  against  them,  that  the 
soldiers  and  the  police  were  against  them — 

But  indeed  this  is  no  place  for  a  full  exposition  of  the  picture 
that  Fitzgerald  drew ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  a  few  minutes  had 
been  sufficient  to  turn  the  Gallio  whom  the  priest  had  re- 
monstrated with  into  a  politician  as  violent  as  the  priest  him- 


STORM  AND  CALM.  213 

self.  Moreover,  his  vehement  declarations  vrere  now  addressed 
to  Kitty,  and  Kitty  timidly  assented.  She  was  staring  into  the 
fire,  not  at  all  in  a  contemplative  mood. 

"  But  why  don't  they  go  away  ?"  said  Miss  Patience. 

"  God  help  them,  they  are  going  away,"  said  he,  "  in  thou- 
sands, though  thei'e's  many  a  breaking  heart  leaving  Queens- 
town  Harbor.  And  it's  the  young  ones  that  are  going;  and 
the  old  ones,  who  can  do  nothing,  are  left  at  home  to  starve." 

"Well,  if  they  can't  earn  a  living,  they  must  suflFer,"  said 
the  young  Englishman.  "  If  you  can't  live,  you  must  die;  it's 
the  law  of  nature.  All  I  know  of  them  is  that  they're  a  set 
of  mean,  snivelling  wretches,  who  will  fawn  upon  you  if  you 
give  them  charity,  and  shoot  you  from  behind  a  hedge  the  min- 
ute after." 

"  Only  after  you  have  given  them  charity?  Then  I  should 
say  you  wei-e  pretty  safe,"  was  the  somewhat  too  fierce  reply. 

Clearly  the  air  was  becoming  surcharged,  and  Miss  Patience 
prudently  left  the  room.  What  astounded  Fitzgerald,  how- 
ever, most  of  all  was  that  this  young  stranger  seemed  so  much 
at  home — so  familiar  with  the  apai'tment  and  its  contents,  and 
so  familiar  in  his  manner  with  Kitty.  He  sat  down  to  the 
piano  and  opened  it  as  if  he  had  been  quite  accustomed  to  do 
that.  He  overhauled  the  music  as  if  it  were  his  own.  And 
at  last  he  said,  as  he  carelessly  ran  his  fingers  up  and  down  the 
keys: 

"Won't  you  sing  something,  Miss  Romayne,  and  let  me 
play  the  accompaniment?     Oh,  I  know  what  will  tempt  you." 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  and  fetched 
a  book  of  music  back  to  the  piano.  He  oj)ened  it ;  played  a  few 
bars,  and  then  turned  round. 

"  Won't  that  tenipt  you  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  not  sing,"  said  Kitty,  without  looking  up. 

"Really  ?     Oh  yes,  come  along." 

"  I  would  rather  not  sing,"  said  Kitty,  again. 

He  turned  to  Fitzgerald,  his  fingei's  still  wandering  lightly 
over  the  keys. 

"Do  you  j)lay?"  said  he. 

The  question  was  innocent  enough,  but  Fitzgerald  considered 
it  impertinent. 

"No  I  don't,"  said  he.      "  I  don't  consider  it  man's  work." 


214  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"That  is  because  you  can't  do  it,  I  suppose,"  said  tlie  other. 

Now  there  was  just  a  trifle  too  much  of  a  sneer  in  tliis  little 
speech.  Fitzgerald  rose,  and  passed  him  on  the  pretense  of 
going  to  look  out.  As  he  passed  he  said,  in  a  low  and  clear 
voice : 

"I  can't  play  the  piano,  but  I  can  throw  puppies  out  of  the 
window." 

Now  whether  this  was  meant  exclusively  for  the  young 
gentleman's  ear  or  not  can  not  be  said,  but  at  all  events,  as 
he  happened  to  cease  playing  for  a  moment,  it  sounded  so 
distinctly  that  Kitty  must  have  overheard  it.  Fitzgerald 
walked  on  to  the  window,  shoved  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  stared  out.  The  young  gentleman,  after  a  second  or  two 
of  silence,  rose  front  the  piano,  took  his  hat  and  cane,  and  said 
to  Kitty,  with  much  formal  politeness: 

"Good-afternoon,  Miss  Eomayne.  I  shall  do  myself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  some  other  time,  when  you  are  not  occu- 
pied with  visitors." 

He  left. 

"  Who  is  that  fellow  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  turning  angrily  from 
the  window. 

"What  fellow?"  said  Miss  Eomayne,  with  quite  as  much 
temper.  "  He  is  a  gentleman.  You  have  no  right  to  insult 
him.  He  is  as  much  entitled  to  civility  in  this  house  as  you 
are.  You  have  no  right  to  insult  him.  A  pretty  opinion  he 
will  have  taken  away  of  you !" 

' '  I  don't  care  about  his  opinion.  I  want  to  know  what  he  is 
doing  here." 

"  He  called,  like  yourself,"  said  she,  stubbornly. 

"Called?  Yes.  And  his  calling  has  made  your  name  a 
by- word." 

Her  eyes  flashed. 

"Now  I  see.  You  have  heard  some  miserable  talking,  and 
that  is  why  you  have  come  over  so  suddenly.  Well,  I  am 
ready  to  be  cross-examined.  I  will  tell  you  what  you  want 
to  know,  if  that  is  your  pui'pose." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  knew  her  mood.  It  was  not  the  first 
of  their  quarrels. 

"  We  will  take  it  that  way,"  said  he,  coldly.  "Who  is  the 
young  gentleman,  if  one  may  be  permitted  to  ask  ?" 


STORM  AND  CALM.  215 

' '  You  have  heard  his  name.  He  belongs  to  a  firm  of  mer- 
chants in  Liverpool." 

"Oh,  I  perceive,"  exclaimed  Fitzgerald,  a  light  breaking  in 
on  him.  "That  accounts  for  the  hymns  of  praise  in  favor  of 
commerce — " 

"I  did  not  say  a  word  about  it,"  she  said,  hotly.  "  If  you 
want  to  insult  Miss  Patience  also,  call  her  in.  We  ought  all 
of  us  to  have  a  share  of  your  politeness." 

"  But  he  is  not  looking  after  the  machinery  that  turns  out 
two  thousand  pounds  in  a  few  hours.  He  is  not  telegraphing 
to  Odessa  from  Cork,  is  he  ?" 

"  How  can  I  tell?" 

"Do  you  know  what  he  is  doing  in  Cork  ?" 

"He  is  travelling.     He  is  on  his  way  to  Killarney." 

"Killarney!  Killarney  at  this  time  of  year!  And  how 
long  has  he  been  in  Cork  on  his  way  to  Killarney  ?" 

"How  can  I  tell  ?" 

' '  Some  time,  however  ?" 

' '  Yes.     Some  time. " 

"And  he  has  called  here  several  times  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  has;  what  harm  is  there  in  that  ?" 

"Oh,  I  did  not  say  there  was  any  harm — " 

"But  why  are  you  talking  to  me  like  that?"  said  she,  and 
she  threw  the  book  she  was  holding  on  to  the  table.  "I  will 
not  be  spoken  to  like  that.  I  have  done  nothing  wrong.  I 
will  not  be  spoken  to  as  if  I  were  a  child.  It  is  you  who  ought 
to  apologize.  You  have  insulted  a  friend  of  mine  under  my 
own  roof — " 

"A  friend?"  said  he,  m  the  same  cold  way.  "Have  we 
come  to  that,  then  ?  But  I  thought  you  were  willing  to  have 
a  few  questions  asked,  that  was  all. " 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  she,  though  rather  sullenly.  "You  can 
find  out  what  you  like ;  and  then  see  whether  you  have  any 
right  to  come  here  with  your  insulting  suspicions." 

"Have  I  mentioned  any  suspicions  ?" 

"You  would  not  be  here  if  you  did  not  suSpect  me." 

"  I  would  like  to  know  more  about  this  young  man,  Kitty." 

"VerywelL" 

' '  Where  were  you  introduced  to  him — or  were  you  intro- 
duced to  him  at  all  ?" 


216  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  I  was  introduced  to  him,"  she  said,  quickly,  and  with  her 
cheeks  hurning.      "  I  was  introduced  to  him  in  Dublin." 

"In  Dublin !  And  so  he  has  followed  you  all  the  way  from 
Dublin  ?" 

"How dare  you  say  such  a  thing ?  He  can  travel  where  he 
pleases;  he  is  well  off.  He  may  be  here  on  business  for  any- 
thing I  know." 

"Oh  no,  Kitty,  not  on  business;  he  is  going  to  Killamey  in 
the  middle  of  winter!  And  isn't  it  strange  that,  since  you've 
known  him  all  the  time  since  you  were  in  Dublin,  you  never 
thought  of  mentioning  his  name  in  any  of  your  letters  to  me  ?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  strange  in  it,"  she  said,  pertly.  "I 
covxld  not  mention  every  trifle.  I  wrote  of  the  things  that  were 
of  real  interest  to  you  and  me." 

That  phrase  "you  and  me"  rather  softened  him.  His  anger 
and  indignation  were  fast  oozing  away.  It  was  so  pitiable  to 
see  Kitty  standing  before  him  there,  with  her  eyes  cast  down 
like  a  culprit. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said  he,  in  a  more  gentle  way — "I 
should  have  thought  that  anything  that  afiFected  your  good 
name  would  be  of  interest  to  you  and  me." 

"If — if  anybody,"  she  said,  with  her  lips  becoming  tremu- 
lous, "has  been  saying  anything— anything  against  my  good 
name,  I  did  not  expect  it — it — it  would  be  you,  Willie." 

And  here  she  broke  into  a  passion  of  teai'S,  and  threw  her- 
self sobbing  into  his  arms,  and  clung  to  him. 

' '  Willie,  there's  nothing  wrong ;  I  can  not  bear  to  have  you 
speak  like  that  to  me.  Yovi  break  my  heart.  I  would  rather 
die  than  have  you  angry  with  me.  There  was  nothing  wrong, 
Willie — there  is  no  harm  in  anything  I  have  done — he — ^he  is 
only  a  boy — and  he  was  so  good  and  kind  when — when  they 
gave  me  a  benefit — and  everybody  spoke  so  well  of  him — " 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  before  ?"  said  he. 

"It  would  only  have  worried  you,"  she  sobbed.  "You 
were  so  far  away.  You  could  not  understand.  But  now  I 
hate  him  for  coming  between  you  and  me.  Why  should  he 
have  caused  such  trouble  ?     Nobody  asked  him  to  come  here — " 

"Well,  Kitty,'"  said  he,  taking  her  small  head  in  his  hands 
in  the  old  way  and  kissing  her,  "I  think  no  harm  has  been 
done;  but  you  have  been  so  imprudent — " 


STORM   AND  CALM.  217 

"Ob,  I  will  confess  anything,  if  only  you  speak  to  me  like 
that,"  said  she,  gladly,  as  she  looked  up  through  her  tears. 

"There  would  have  been  no  trouble  if  only  you  had  let  me 
know.  Of  course  what  I  said  about  their  taking  away  your 
good  name  was  perhaps  too  serious.  They  have  been  talking, 
though ;  and  I  should  not  have  heeded  one  moment  what  they 
said  if  only  I  had  known  beforehand — " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  care  what  they  say,"  said  she,  taking  his 
hand  and  kissing  it,  "so  long  as  you  don't  quarrel  with  me, 
Willie.  And  I  ought  to  have  known.  Miss  Patience  told 
me  something  like  this  would  happen.  'But, 'I  said  to  her, 
'  surely  he  can't  object  to  any  one  paying  us  an  afternoon  call ; 
there's  no  harm  in  that.'  And  if  you  only  knew  how  lonesome 
it  is  for  us  two,  Willie,  sometimes,  you  would  understand  how 
glad  we  were  to  have  an  occasional  visitor.  Then  he  was  very 
kind  about  the  benefit ;  he  took  £20  worth  of  tickets — that  was 
from  me,  not  from  the  agents,  so  we  did  not  lose  the  com- 
mission ;  and  I  have  saved  so  much  this  winter  that  if  it  were 
only  summer  weather  now,  I'd  treat  you  and  me  and  Miss 
Patience  to  a  trip  to  Killarney." 

"  Kitty, "he  said,  sharply,  "that  fellow  is  humbugging  you. 
He  is  not  thinking  of  Killarney  at  all.  He  is  dawdling  after 
you,  and  people  have  noticed  it.  Now  for  your  own  sake,  and 
for  mine,  and  for  the  sake  of  what  has  been  between  us  in  by- 
gone days,  you  will  have  to  be  a  little  more — more  circum- 
spect, Kitty." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  cheerfully,  "I  am  willing  to  take  any 
amount  of  scolding — that  way.  If  only  you  hold  me  in  your 
arms,  you  can  scold  away.  And  I  believe  it  all  then.  I  believe 
I  am  very  bad.  Of  course  I  don't  believe  it  when  yon  provoke 
me,  and  make  me  feel  hurt  and  injured ;  then  it's  you  who  are 
in  the  wrong.  And  now  you  know  how  to  make  me  do  just 
as  you  like." 

Making  up  a  quarrel  with  Kitty  was  very  nice;  and  it  gen- 
erally lasted  a  good  long  time  between  these  two.  There  was 
a  tap  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Kitty,  quickly  putting  a  considerable  dis- 
tance between  them. 

' '  Please,  miss.  Miss  Patience  wants  to  know  when  ye'd  be 
for  having  your  tay." 

10 


218  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  Ob,  now,  at  once,  tell  her."  And  then  she  turned  to  Fitz- 
gerald :  ' '  And  now.  Master  Willie,  will  you  help  me  to  light 
the  gas  ?  And  we  will  have  the  blind  down ;  then  tea ;  then 
you  shall  read  to  us  'The  Battle  of  Ivry,'  and  it  will  be  all 
like  old  times  again.  How  odd  it  is,"  she  proceeded,  as  she  laid 
the  cloth,  "that  we  are  always  glad  to  have  something  like 
something  that  has  happened  to  us  before!  I  suppose  in  a 
year  or  two  we  shall  be  saying,  '  Come  along,  now,  and  let  us 
have  tea  snugly,  like  the  old  times,  like  the  Sunday  after  the 
quarrel.  And  it  will  be  better  than  if  we  had  nothing  to  look 
back  to." 

"And  where  will  that  tea  take  place,  Kitty  ?"  said  he. 

"Where,  indeed?"  said  she,  cheerfully.  "Who  can  tell? 
I  suppose  in  London." 

Miss  Patience  came  in,  looking  rather  frightened.  But  she 
was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that  her  two  companions  were  on 
excellent  terms;  indeed,  when  they  all  sat  down  to  the  tea  ta- 
ble, she  had  to  rebuke  Kitty  for  facetiously  referring  to  Mr. 
Cobbs  as  the  "fat  boy." 

"He  is  in  an  important  position,"  said  she,  with  some  dig- 
nity. "  He  has  it  in  his  power  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good.  He 
can  afford  to  be  chai'itable.     He  has  not  to  think  of  himself." 

"  That  is  fortunate,  at  least,"  said  Fitzgerald,  ungenerously, 
"for  he  would  have  little  to  think  of,  and  little  to  do  the  think- 
ing with.  Now  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  thought  a  great  deal 
of  himself." 

"  He  is  a  very  elegant-mannered  young  man,"  said  Miss  Pa- 
tience, with  precision.  "He  is  in  an  enviable  situation — free 
fi'om  care,  and  able  to  attend  to  others.  The  country  needs 
such  persons ;  not  adventurei'S  who  make  money  out  of  their 
politics,  but  gentlemen — educated  gentlemen — who  are  above 
bribes,  and  can  help  to  govern  the  country  disinterestedly. 
He  belongs  to  the  class  of  men  to  whom  we  have  to  look  for 
proper  government — " 

"  God  help  us,  then!"  said  Fitzgerald,  inadvertently. 

"And  I  am  glad  to  say  that  his  opinions  on  public  affairs — " 

"His  what?" 

"His  opinions,"  repeated  Miss  Patience,  with  dignity. 

"Well,  to  call  the  ignorant  prejudices  of  a  conceited  young 
donkey  like  that  opinions  is,  at  all  events,  courteous.     But 


STORM  AND  CALM.  219 

no  harm  is  done  by  the  existence  of  such  creatures.  They  go 
circling  about  the  world,  aimless,  placeless,  with  no  more  in- 
fluence on  real  politics  than  the  pointers  and  setters  of  the 
United  Kingdom.  I  dare  say  these  young  gentlemen  encour- 
age the  importation  of  third-rate  cigars  from  Havana;  and 
they  add  greatly  to  the  profits  of  the  producers  of  bad  cham- 
pagne; and  so  there  is  a  kind  of  reason  for  their  existence." 

"  He  is  a  very  nice  boy,  and  I  won't  have  such  things  said 
about  him, "  interposed  Kitty ;  but  she  was  laughing,  for  Miss 
Patience  looked  offended. 

"One  thing  you  can't  help  admiring  about  him,"  continued 
Fitzgerald,  talking  with  familiar  contempt  about  Mr.  Cobbs, 
as  if  he  wei'e  some  insect  before  them,  ' '  is  his  forbearance. 
Just  fancy !  Most  men  who  could  make  £2000  in  twenty-five 
minutes  by  remaining  in  Liverpool  would  think  twice  before 
coming  away  over  to  Cork  and  doing  nothing.  Look  at  that 
forbearance!  He  might  affect  the  currency  by  draining  such 
masses  of  gold  from  Odessa  and  elsewhere  into  England.  Or 
is  it  his  imagination  that  is  most  to  be  admired  ?" 

"Willie!"  Kitty  said,  reproachfully.  "You  seem  to  have 
caught  up  the  London  way  of  believing  in  nothing." 

' '  Oh  no, "  said  he ;  "I  am  pursuing  a  philosophical  investiga- 
tion. I  want  to  know  which  part  of  his  character  to  admire 
the  most.  I  think  it  must  be  imagination — or  i^rudence  ? — he 
departed  quickly." 

"I  thought  he  behaved  very  well,  and  you  abominably," 
said  Kitty,  with  her  accustomed  frankness.  "  And  you  have 
never  yet  apologized  to  me  for  your  rudeness." 

"Well,  I  do  now,  Kitty.  I  shall  never  be  so  rude  again 
before  you." 

She  touched  his  hand  beneath  the  table. 

"You  shall  never  have  occasion  again,"  said  she,  in  a  low 
voice. 

It  was  a  long  afternoon  and  evening;  but  no  afternoon  and 
evening  was  half  long  enough  when  he  and  Kitty  were  together. 
And  Miss  Patience  was  kind  ;  she  went  away  occasionally — 
perhaps  to  her  politics — leaving  them  together  in  the  hushed 
warm  little  parlor,  all  thoughts  of  the  dark  world  of  London 
shut  out,  and  only  present  to  them  the  memories  of  summer 
rambles  and  of  moonlight  walks  along  the  coast  at  Inisheen. 


220  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Kitty  was  as  pleased  and  pretty  and  fascinating  as  ever;  you 
would  not  have  thought  that,  but  a  few  hours  before,  she  had 
been  standing  opposite  him  with  her  eyes  flashing  and  her 
cheeks  pale  with  anger.  She  was  now  so  gentle,  so  winning ; 
the  touch  of  her  warm  little  hand  was  soft  as  velvet. 

"  And  must  you  really  go  away  again  to-morrow,  Willie  ?" 
she  said.  She  was  seated  on  the  hearth-i'ug  before  the  lire, 
her  head  just  touching  his  knee. 

"  I  must  indeed.  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  begging  her  to 
let  me  ofP  to-morrow  night;  and  to-morrow  night  I  shall  be 
neither  there  nor  here,  but  on  the  wide  sea  that  separates  us, 
Kitty." 

"It  is  such  a  long  journey  to  take  for  merely  a  little  talk 
like  this." 

"  For  more  than  that,  Kitty." 
She  blushed  somewhat,  but  said  nothing. 
"I  am  coming  to  the  station  to  see  you  off  to-morrow,"  said 
she  at  length. 

"Would  you?"  said  he,  with  great  delight.  "Would  you 
take  the  trouble  ?" 

"The  trouble!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  I  am  going  to  do 
more  than  that,  if  you  will  let  me.  I  want  to  get  a  proper  kind 
of  luncheon  for  you  in  a  little  basket,  because — because  it  is  a 
woman's  place  to  provide  such  things,"  said  Kitty,  with  a  trifle 
of  self-conscious  pride.  "And  I  know  what  you  men  do: 
you  stuff  a  lot  of  sandwiches  into  a  piece  of  paper,  and  take 
them  out  and  eat  them  when  they  are  like  leather. " 

"  Not  I,"  said  he.  "I  have  had  a  warning.  An  Academi- 
cian's wife  told  me  that  sandwiches  were  most  pernicious." 

' '  An  Academician's  wife !"  said  Kitty.      ' '  And  yet  you  deny 
you  go  out  among  those  great  ladies  in  London !     Why  don't 
you  make  haste,  and  make  me  a  great  lady,  and  take  me  about 
with  you,  instead  of  gallivanting  about  by  yourself  ?" 
"Am  I  not  making  haste,  Kitty  ?" 

"  Yes,  sitting  by  a  fii'e  in  Audley  Place,  and  letting  me  stroke 
your  hand,  while  you  ought  to  be  fighting  tooth  and  nail  in 
London,  with  all  your  armor  on,  careering  everything  down 
before  you." 

"If  it  was  that  kind  of  fighting,  Kitty,  pei-haps  it  would  be 
easier,"  said  he,  absently;  for  he  was  thinking  of  the  lonely 


STOEM  AND  CALM.  223 

room  to  which  he  was  returning-,  with  no  Kitty  to  sit  by  him 
on  the  hearth-rug,  and  stir  the  fire  when  it  was  getting  low. 

Next  morning  he  thought  she  had  forgotten  her  promise, 
for  it  was  near  the  time  of  starting,  and  yet  no  Kitty  had  put 
in  an  appearance.  Then  he  saw  her  come  quickly  along,  alone ; 
and  she  was  breathless  when  she  reached  him. 

" Oh,  Willie,  I  thought  I  was  too  late;  but  here  is  the  bask- 
et, and  if  the  pie  is  a  little  warm  still,  it  will  be  cold  by  the  time 
you  want  it.  I  made  it  myself,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh  and  a 
blush,  "last  night  after  you  were  gone — " 

' '  Last  night !"  he  said.     ' '  After  twelve  ?" 

"What  was  that,  compared  to  your  comfort  ?''  said  she,  bold- 
ly. "And  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  that  my  hands 
could  do  something  besides — besides  kissing  a  good-by  to  you. 
And  I  was  up  this  morning  by  six  to  get  it  in  the  oven.  Oh, 
Willie,  I  have  had  so  little  time,"  she  added,  breathlessly ;  "I 
could  not  quite  get  all  the  sawdust  off  the  grapes,  so  be  a  lit- 
tle careful — " 

"Oh,  never  mind  these  things, "said  he,  for  the  guard  was 
impatient.  "But  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Kitty.  You  are  al- 
ways kind.  And  now  I  am  going  away  again — who  knows 
for  how  long  ?" 

"That  depends  on  you," she  said,  with  a  smile ;  and  she  kiss- 
ed him,  and  she  kept  waving  her  handkerchief  until  the  train 
was  quite  out  of  sight. 

He  was  alone  in  the  carriage;  and  he  was  gazing  out  of 
the  window,  seeing  nothing.  His  whole  visit  this  time  had 
been  so  rapid  and  so  strange.  And  he  was  so  glad  to  take 
away  with  him  the  renewed  assurance  of  Kitty's  faitli  and  con- 
stancy and  love  that  he  could  scarcely  admit  to  himself  the  pre- 
sence of  a  consciousness  that  it  was  now  become  more  urgent 
than  ever  that  he  should  seek  to  win  his  way  in  London. 

The  day  wore  on  with  these  imaginings,  until  at  last  the 
base  claims  of  hunger  reminded  him  that  he  had  been  so 
ungrateful  as  to  forget  all  about  Kitty's  parting  gift.  You 
may  imagine  the  interest  and  delight  with  which  he  opened 
the  pretty  little  basket,  and  bethought  him  of  how  Kitty's 
own  fingers  had  placed  such  and  such  things  there  for  him. 
Indeed,  a  woman's  hand  was  visible  everywhere  in  the  neat- 
ness with  which  everything  was  wrapped  up  and  arranged. 


224  SHANDON  BELLS. 

There  was  a  small  table  napkin,  as  white  as  snow.  The  knife 
and  fork  and  spoon  were  all  brilliant ;  and  there  was  a  tiny 
tumbler  along  with  the  half-bottle  of  claret.  There  was  the 
pie  that  she  had  waited  up  in  the  night-time  to  make  for  him ; 
and  had  she  dressed  the  salad,  too  ?  He  could  see  no  saw- 
dust at  all  on  the  bunch  of  grapes.  And  then  his  eyes  and 
thoughts  wandered  away  altogether  from  the  materials  of  the 
little  banquet;  and  he  thought  what  a  pretty  housewife  Kitty 
would  make,  filling  the  rooms  with  light,  and  singing  and  hur- 
rying up  everybody  in  her  fearless,  independent  way.  And 
the  rooms  through  which  he  saw  her  moving  were  the  rooms 
of  the  little  green  and  white  house  at  Chelsea. 

He  had  a  beautiful  night  for  crossing.  The  stars  were  ex- 
traordinarily brilliant.  As  the  huge  ship  ploughed  her  way 
through  the  black  waves,  all  the  interest  of  the  night  was  cen- 
tred in  the  clear  dome  above,  where  the  myriad  eyes  throbbed 
or  gazed  steadily.  There  was  the  resplendent  Jupiter,  not  far 
from  the  misty  Pleiades  ;  Mars  was  unusually  high  in  the 
heavens ;  Orion's  jewels  flashed ;  the  great  world  above  was  lit 
with  a  million  fires,  while  the  one  below  was  but  a  mourn- 
ful sound  of  unseen  water.  And  perhaps  this  young  fellow 
sitting  there  on  deck  in  the  cold  night  (with  his  heart  very 
warm  Avith  love)  may  have  laughed  to  himself  when  he  im- 
agined what  the  scientific  folk  who  came  to  Hyde  Park 
Gardens  would  think  of  his  way  of  looking  at  the  stars.  He 
had  no  anxiety  to  know  whether  there  was  any  chloride  of  so- 
dium in  them.  When  he  regarded  their  brilliancy  he  thought 
of  Kitty's  eyes;  their  patient  re-appearance  night  after  night, 
year  after  year,  only  reminded  him  of  Kitty's  faithfulness; 
and  the  far-reaching  and  luminous  heavens  themselves  seem- 
ed really  to  belong  to  Inisheen,  and  to  him,  and  to  her,  and  to 
their  secret  walks  along  the  shores  in  the  nights  gone  by. 


A  PROSPECT.  225 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  PROSPECT. 

The  first  thing  that  Fitzgerakl  did  on  returning  to  London 
was  to  hunt  up  Andy  the  Hopper,  and  transfer  him  from  Lime- 
house  to  the  Fulham  Road ;  and  during  these  next  few  days, 
while  Andy  hung  about  and  acted  as  general  servant  as  well  as 
he  could,  and  while  John  Ross  and  his  neighbor  made  suc- 
cessive experiments  with  the  wild  fowl  and  game  that  had 
come  from  the  south  of  Ireland,  things  went  cheerfully 
enough.  The  woodcock  were  Inisheen  woodcock,  and  he  was 
proud  that  Ross  approved  of  them  highly.  Then  he  took 
Andy  to  see  one  or  two  of  the  sights  of  London ;  but  Andy  was 
somewhat  of  a  failure.  He  mei-ely  gaped.  Fitzgerald  (so  des- 
perate was  his  need)  thought  he  might  induce  some  editor  to 
accept  a  paper  descriptive  of  a  wild  Irishman's  first  impres- 
sions of  the  great  city ;  but  he  could  not  make  much  out  of  the 
staring  eyes,  the  oj)en  mouth,  and  the  occasional  muttered  ex- 
clamation which  were  the  only  evidences  of  Andy's  amazement. 

At  last,  when  Andy  was  going  away,  Fitzgerald  said  to  him, 

"Look  here,  Andy,  I  have  a  word  for  you." 

"  Av  ye  plase,  sir." 

"You  may  as  well  know  that  I  am  going  to  marry  the 
young  lady  who  was  at  Inisheen  that  time  you  remember. " 

" Baithershins,  Masther  Willie!"  exclaimed  Andy,  with  a 
vast  and  capacious  grin.  " 'Twas  the  divil's  own  diversion 
for  ye  to  go  sporting  about  with  the  gyurl,  and  thin  to  go  and 
lave  her  like  that^" 

"Hold  your  tongue  or  I'll  pitch  you  down  the  stair,"  said 
Fitzgerald,  angrily;  and  Andy's  face  changed  instantly,  for 
he  perceived  that  this  was  no  joke  at  all. 

"Is  it  thrue,  Masther  Willie  ?"  said  he,  with  great  concern. 

"  It  is  true.     She  is  going  to  be  my  wife:  now  you  know." 

" 'Tis  the  proud  gyurl  she'll  be,  thin!"  said  Andy.  "Oh, 
didn't  I  suspect  that  same  now,  for  all  the  jokin'  ?  'Sure,'  I 
said,  '  Masther  Willie  wouldn't  be  afther  takiu'  the  throuble 

10* 


226  SHANDON  BELLS. 

to  walk  about  wid  the  English  young  lady  if  'twasn't  a  coort- 
in'?'  Oh,  the  beautiful  young  crayture,  now!  Sure  a  purtier 
young  lady  ye  wouldn't  find  betwixt  the  Blackwater  and  the 
Shannon.     She's  the  flower  o'  faymales,  and  that's  thrue." 

"The  what?" 

Andy  glanced  at  the  young  master  anxiously. 

' '  'Tis  what  they  say  in  poethry , "  said  he,  with  some  hesitation, 

"Well,  attend  to  me,  Andy.  There  has  been  some  gos- 
siping going  on  in  Inisheen,  I  gather.  Well,  now,  attend  to 
this:  the  first  that  you  hear  say  anything  about  that  young 
lady,  you  take  your  hopping-pole  and  lay  it  over  his  head. 
Do  you  understand  that,  now  ?" 

"Faix,  it  might  be  my  own  head  I'd  have  to  break,  thin," 
said  Andy.  "For  wasn't  it  mesilf  that  brought  the  story  of 
what  Corney  Malone  —  the  divil  swape  him! — was  saying? 
But  sure,  Masther  Willie,  when  they  know  you're  going  to 
marry  the  young  lady — the  beautiful  crayture  she  is ! — do  ye 
think  they'd  be  afther  saying  anything  more  ?"  Then  Andy, 
after  a  second,  added,  valiantly:  "  No  matther,  Masther  Willie ; 
if  the  laping-pole  will  do,  'tis  at  your  sarvice;  and  divil  the 
man  or  boy  in  Inisheen  has  a  head  so  thick  that  it  won't 
break — glory  be  to  God !" 

But  Fitzgerald  also  knew  that  there  would  be  no  more 
gossiping  after  this  authoritative  announcement;  and  why 
should  it  not  be  known  that  he  was  going  to  marry  Kitty  ? 

So  Andy  went  away  back  to  Ireland ;  and  the  days  passed ; 
and  spring  came  in  mild  and  humid  weather  to  Chelsea ;  and 
the  old  hard  fight  was  continued,  now  w^ith  illusive  hopes, 
now  with  keen  disappointments,  always  with  a  terrible  anx- 
iety. For  that  was  what  he  had  definitely  brought  away  with 
him  from  Cork — a  haunting  consciousness  that  it  was  neces- 
sary he  should  get  on  at  once.  And  how  could  he  bring  ed- 
itors to  understand  that  ?  They  knew  nothing  about  Inisheen. 
They  would  keep  his  MSS.  for  indefinite  periods;  sometimes 
lose  them;  sometimes  return  them  after  the  subject  of  which 
they  treated  had  passed  from  the  public  mind.  For  Fitzgerald, 
having  brought  his  burlesque  of  j)ot-house  politics  to  an  end, 
had  begun  to  tiy  his  hand  at  real  politics ;  but  the  difficulty 
was  to  get  an  opening  for  these  carefully  prepared  articles 
of  his.     More  than  once  the  conductor  of  a  journal  took  the 


A  PROSPECT.  227 

trouble  to  write  to  him  in  returning  one  of  these,  to  explain 
that  he  approved  of  it,  and  might  have  used  it  in  his  paper  but 
that  all  such  subjects  were  treated  by  the  regular  members  of 
his  staff,  which  at  the  moment  was  full.  Fitzgerald  found  most 
encouragement  from  the  projectors  of  new  magazines,  who 
were  prepared  to  put  him  on  their  staff  at  once ;  but  as  his  pay- 
ment in  most  cases  was  to  be  contingent  on  some  future  share 
of  profits,  the  arrangement  did  not  seem  satisfactory.  By  some 
extraordinary  chance,  which  he  himself  could  scarcely  under- 
stand, he  got  one  article  inserted  in  the  monthly  magazine 
which  at  that  time  was  far  and  away  ahead  of  all  its  fellows ; 
and  as  his  name  was  attached,  he  had  at  least  the  pride  of  send- 
ing it  to  Kitty.  But  his  subsequent  efforts  in  that  direction 
only  resulted  in  heart-rending  delay  and  disappointment.  In 
short,  he  had  to  learn,  as  many  an  unfortunate  wi'etch  has  had 
to  learn,  and  will  have  to  learn,  that  fugitive  writing  of  this 
kind  is  valueless  as  a  means  of  living. 

"  Ye  are  trying  too  much,  laddie,"  said  John  Ross  to  him  one 
evening  when  they  were  having  a  smoke  together  in  the  hol- 
low-sounding studio.  "Ye  are  writing  about  everything  in 
the  universe.     Is  it  politics  or  leeterature  ye're  after  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "What  I  do  know  is 
that  I  ought  to  have  been  learning  short-hand  when  I  was 
shooting  snipe.  Then  I  could  have  got  on  in  newspaper  work 
by  the  usual  stages.  Now  I  can't  get  my  foot  on  the  first  rung 
of  the  ladder — unless  it's  the  tread-mill:  that's  the  only  occu- 
pation in  this  country  that  you  can  get  hold  of  without  any 
introduction  or  training.  Oh,  of  course,  what  I  should  like 
would  be  literature,"  he  added,  remembering  the  dreams  with 
which  he  had  set  out  for  London.  "  But  I  don't  see  any  j)er- 
manent  work  in  that.  What  they  seenx  to  like  best  is  my 
verses ;  and  these  ybu  can't  manufacture  at  will.  I  have  once 
or  twice  tried  writing  a  novel.  That  is  no  use:  I  found  myself 
imitating  somebody  else  in  spite  of  myself.  No,  the  only  con- 
stant occupation  for  a  writing  man  I  see  is  newspa))er  work, 
and  all  the  newspaper  offices  are  full.  Never  mind,"  said  he, 
cheerfully,  as  he  struck  another  match,  ' '  I  can  live.  I  can 
always  earn  my  living  as  a  gamekeeper.  Perhaps  it  was  too 
cheeky  of  me  to  come  away  from  Cork  and  attempt  to  fight  my 
way  single-handed  in  London  literature.     I  had  no  introduc- 


228  SHANDON   BELLS. 

tions,  uo  influence.  I  got  some  helps  at  the  beginning ;  but  I 
had  to  pay  for  that  pretty  heavily.  Well,  I  have  not  quite  given 
in  yet.  I  mean  still  to  try  for  a  time.  And  then,  if  I  am  beaten 
— well,  I  shall  have  had  the  experience;  that  is  something." 

He  had  been  talking  very  contentedly  and  even  cheerfully ; 
but  now  a  slight  shadow  seemed  to  come  over  the  square  fore- 
head and  the  clear  and  thoughtful  eyes. 

"Life  would  be  a  simple  matter — it  would  be  easy  enough," 
said  he,  '"  if  one  had  only  one's  self  to  consider.  But  it  is  dif- 
ferent when  you  have  to  ask  some  one  else  for  the  sacrifice  of 
expectations." 

Ross  glanced  at  him. 

"That  depends  on  the  young  lass  herself,"  said  he;  "that 
depends  on  what  she  is  like." 

Fitzgerald  was  too  deeply  occupied  to  resent  the  imputation 
or  inference. 

"Ross,"  said  he,  eagerly,  "you've  never  told  me  what  you 
think  about  women.  You've  talked  about  everything  else  in 
the  world,  I  believe,  except  that." 

The  other  laughed. 

"What  I  think  about  women?"  said  he.  "The  laddie's 
cracked.  What  chance  has  any  man  o'  forming  a  judgment 
on  the  half  o'  the  human  race  ?  Ye  may  get  to  know  two 
women,  or  three  women,  or  maybe  even  half  a  dozen  women, 
in  the  whole  course  of  your  life ;  and  ye're  well  off  if  they  hap- 
pen to  be  decent  sort  o'  creatures,  for  it's  from  them  ye  are  like- 
ly to  form  your  opeenion  o'  the  whole  lot." 

"  You  remember  me  telling  you  about  Hilton  Clarke  ?" 

"  I  remember  the  meeserable  wretch,"  said  Ross,  plainly. 

' '  Oh,  but  I  bear  him  no  gi'udge, "  said  Fitzgerald.  ' '  At  least, 
not  for  the  money  pai't  of  the  business.  I  don't  believe  he 
meant  to  swindle  anybody.  It  was  merely  that  he  was  lacking 
in  a  kind  of  sixth  sense  that  keeps  most  people  straight  about 
money.  I  dare  say,  if  he  had  money  to-morrow,  and  I  want- 
ed it,  he  would  let  me  have  it." 

"I  dare  say  he  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Ross, 
severely.  "And  the  sixth  sense  ye  speak  of — do  ye  mean 
common  honesty  ?" 

"Well,  it  isn't  that  that  I  remember  against  him;  but  he 
had  a  most  pernicious  habit  of  putting  things  into  your  head — " 


A   PROSPECT.  229 

"  Put  them  out  again,  then,  for  God's  sake.  Would  ye  list- 
en to  the  teaching  of  a  man  like  that  ?" 

' '  But  it  is  not  so  easy  to  put  them  out.  You  keep  asking 
yourself  whether  his  theories  ai'e  true  or  not;  and  then  life 
is  so  much  of  a  mystery ;  and  people  who  are  older  than  you 
yourself  are  must  have  had  so  much  more  experience  of  human 
nature — " 

' '  That  ye  should  believe  them  ?  No.  I  say  no !"  John  Ross 
said ;  and  whatever  he  did  say  he  said  emphatically,  even  if  it 
involved  the  knocking  off  the  head  of  his  pipe.  "I  say  no. 
I  say,  ask  first  of  all  with  what  sort  of  spectacles  they  have 
been  looking  at  human  nature." 

"For  example,"  said  Fitzgerald — but  why  did  he  avert  his 
eyes,  and  pretend  to  be  busy  with  the  stove,  to  hide  his  shame- 
facedness  ? — "he  had  a  theory,  or  a  conviction  rather,  that 
there  were  many  women  who  were  really  too  affectionate — too 
kind  and  generous — who  really  could  not  help  falling  in  love 
with  anybody  who  was  near  them.  He  said  they  would  keep 
quite  faithful  and  true  so  long  as  you  were  beside  them  ; 
but  in  absence  they  could  not  help  letting  their  tenderness  of 
heart  begin  to  suggest  possibilities ;  until,  pei-haps  before  they 
quite  knew  themselves,  they  grew  fonder  and  fonder  of  the 
new-comer;  and  then  you  see  what  the  world  would  call  the 
breaking  of  a  troth :  heartlessness,  or  something  like  that,  had 
really  come  about  because  the  woman  had  too  much  kindness 
and  affection  in  her  nature — " 

"  What  kind  of  a  woman  do  ye  call  that  ?"  said  Ross,  with 
harsh  contempt.  "What  kind  of  affection  do  ye  call  that? 
I  call  it  the  affection  that  exists  between  rabbits.  God  be 
thanked,  that's  no  the  kind  o'  women  I  have  met — " 

"Then  you  don't  think  there  are  such  women  ?"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, eagerly,  and  he  raised  his  head  at  last — "women  whose 
excess  of  kindness  would  always  be  keeping  one  in  anxiety  ? 
You  think  that  was  merely  a  fantastic  theory  V 

"I  mind  one  poor  lass,"  said  Ross,  absently,  "that  had  too 
much  love  in  her  heart;  but  that  was  not  the  way  it  went. 
A  winsome  bit  lassie  she  was;  so  jimp  and  neat  and  blithe  ;  and 
I  think  half  the  laddies  in  the  school  where  I  was  at  Beith 
were  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her;  and  mony's  the  sair 
fight  there  was  amongst  us  about  her,     She  was  to  be  married 


230  SHANDON  BELLS. 

to  a  young  fellow — a  sailor-lad  he  was,  I  think — though  she 
was  but  sixteen  or  seventeen ;  and  what  must  he  do  one  night 
at  Greenock  but  get  fuddled,  and  go  out  capering  in  a  boat 
in  one  of  the  docks,  and  get  drowned  in  the  dark.  The  poor 
lass  never  held  up  her  head.  She  had  some  money,  too ;  for  her 
father  had  left  her  some  bits  of  cottages  at  Beith;  and  many  a 
one  came  after  her;  but  she  had  not  a  word  for  any  of  them. 
She  just  dwindled  away — though  she  had  been  as  healthy  a 
lass  as  any  in  the  parish ;  and  in  three  or  four  years'  time  they 
put  her  in  the  kirk-yaird;  and  though  folk  say  that  nobody 
ever  dies  o'  a  broken  heart,  I  do  not  know  what  else  it  was  that 
Jean  Shaw  died  o'.  Ay,  that  was  one.  Then  there  were  two 
more — I  may  say  three — that  never  married  because  they  could 
not  get  the  man  they  wanted.  That's  four — a  good  number  in 
one  man's  experience.  Oh,  but  I've  known  the  other  side  too 
— young  lasses  changing  their  mind — giddy  creatures,  for  the 
most  part,  wanting  to  cut  a  dash  with  more  money  than  their 
first  sweetheart  had.  And  there's  one,"  said  he,  with  a  grim 
smile,  ' '  that  I  would  like  to  know  more  about  now.  She  was  in 
a  place  in  Glasgow — I  mean  she  was  a  servant-lass — and  her 
sweetheart  was  a  working  plumber — a  roaring,  swearing, 
drunken  sort  o'  fellow.  Then  she  must  needs  take  uj)  with 
some  shop-keeper  laddie,  as  being  more  genteel,  d'ye  see  ;  and 
there  was  some  quarrelling,  until  the  plumber  got  hold  o'  the 
young  fellow,  and  smashed  him  almost  into  bits.  That  was  a 
seven  years'  business  for  him.  So  as  soon  as  he  was  safe  out 
o'  the  way,  she  married  the  shop-keeper ;  and  no  doubt  every- 
thing went  well  until  the  seven  years  began  to  come  down  to 
six  and  five  and  four  and  three.  The  last  I  heard  was  that  the 
husband  and  wife  were  living  in  daily  fear  o'  their  lives ;  for 
the  plumber  was  soon  to  be  out,  and  he  had  sworn  to  murder 
the  pair  o'  them.  Man,"  said  Ross,  bringing  down  his  fist  on 
his  knee,  "wliy  dinna  you  leeterary  people  go  where  ye  can 
see  human  passion  in  the  rough,  where  ye  can  see  the  real 
tragedy  of  life  ?  That  is  no  among  the  fine  people — the  nobeel- 
ity;  for  there  money  lets  an  ill-assorted  couple  go  different 
ways ;  and  at  the  worst,  if  the  wife  goes  to  the  bad,  the  husband 
is  too  much  of  a  philosopher  to  bother  himself  into  a  rage 
about  it,  for  he  has  run  through  all  the  experiences  of  life  long 
before  he  ever  got  married.     And  it's  no  among  the  middle 


A  PROSPECT.  231 

classes;  they  are  too  well-conducted  and  circumspect;  they 
fear  the  talk  o'  their  chui'ch-going  and  chapel-going  neighbors. 
No,  it's  among  the  lower,  or  even  the  lowest,  classes,  that  the 
passions  are  simple  and  intense.  When  the  woman  is  faith- 
less, the  man  murders  her,  or  tries  to,  regaixUess  of  conse- 
quences. Starvation,  the  madness  o'  drink,  the  pitiableuess 
o'  the  weak,  the  fight  for  bread — these  are  the  things  that  show 
ye  what  the  struggles,  the  passions,  the  bigness,  the  littleness, 
o'  human  nature  are.  Leave  your  books,  man,  and  get  out  to 
Bermondsey,  or  Spitalfields,  or  Shadwell,  and  study  the  men 
and  women  there — " 

"Oh,  I  am  not  a  dramatist,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "Besides,  I 
think  you  are  quite  mistaken. "  Ross  was  continually  dogmati- 
zing about  his  own  profession ;  why  should  not  he  about  his  ? 
"You  may  find  brute  force  there,  and  violent  jealousy;  any- 
thing else  you  must  take  with  you.  And  when  you  begin  plant- 
ing your  litei'ary  theories  —  your  noble  sentiments  that  are  the 
pi'oduct  of  refinement — into  that  coarse  soil,  the  crop  is  merely 
affectation.  The  bully  who  suddenly  bursts  out  crying  when 
he  hears  a  canary  is  a  mere  sham — unless  he  is  drunk,  when  he 
would  probably  get  up  and  strangle  the  canary.  Passion  in 
the  rough  ?  Yes,  the  rough  sometimes  has  a  good  deal  of 
passion — when  he  kicks  his  mother.  Thank  you ;  but  before 
I  go  and  try  to  paint  a  picture  of  the  coster-monger — with  a 
pewter  pot  in  his  hand  and  love  and  innocence  in  his  heart 
— I  shall  wait  to  see  what  effect  a  course  of  lectures  on  lime- 
light will  have  on  him." 

Ross  regarded  him  for  a  second. 

"  Ye're  a  deep  young  fellow,"  he  said,  "for  all  your  frank 
face.  Or  is  it  pride  ?  I'm  afraid  the  young  lady  up  there 
and  you  don't  get  on  very  well  together." 

' '  Oh,  I  think  she  means  to  be  very  civil  to  me.  I  think,  from 
little  suggestions,  that  she  has  been  talking  to  her  aunt  about 
sending  me  over  as  bailiff  to  an  estate  they  have  at  Bantry. 
Well,  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  My  present  post  is  rather  too  much 
of  a  sinecure." 

"  Other  people  manage  to  live  on  sinecures  happily  eneuch," 
said  Ross,  bluntly.  "  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  half  a  dizzen  o' 
them !" 

"And  then," continued  Fitzgerald, with  some  tell-tale  color 


2'S2  SHANDON   BELLS. 

in  liis  face,  "  the  other  people  about  that  house  are  all  such  hard- 
working people — I  mean  those  you  sometimes  meet  by  chance 
— that  one  feels  such  an  idler.  I  do  believe  at  this  minute,"  he 
said,  in  desperation,  ' '  if  they  were  to  give  me  a  decent  salary 
as  bailiff  at  that  farm,  I'd  take  it,  and  have  done  with  litera- 
ture. I  can  enjoy  literature  without  trying  to  make  any ;  and 
I  should  be  in  my  own  element  over  there.  But  what  were  we 
talking  about?"  He  pretended  to  make  a  cast  back.  "Oh 
yes ;  about  Hilton  Clarke's  theories  about  women.  Well,  here 
are  other  two  women — these  Chetwynds — who,  I  am  sure, 
are  perfectly  honest  and  upright  and  believable.  My  ex- 
perience has  not  been  very  great;  I  can  scarcely  remember 
my  mother,  and  I  had  no  sisters.  But  most  of  the  women 
I  have  been  more  or  less  acquainted  with  have  been,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  a  good  deal  better  and  more  honest  and  more 
unselfish  than  the  men;  and — and  in  short  you  wouldn't  be 
inclined  to  doubt  your  own  experiences  even  when  a  man  who 
has  seen  more  of  the  world  than  you  have  tries  to  make  you 
less  believing  ?" 

"I  would  send  him  to  the  devil,"  said  Ross,  decisively. 
"Believe  in  the  honesty  of  men  and  women,  and  in  the  wise 
providence  and  justice  o'  things,  as  long  as  ye  can;  and  when 
ye  can  not,  put  it  down  to  your  personal  bad  luck,  and  dinna 
accuse  everybody  of  stealing  because  the  majority  o'  the  folk  ye 
have  met  have  disappointed  ye.  The  truth  is,  ye  are  anxious 
about  that  young  lass  in  Ireland." 

Fitzgerald  started,  and  was  inclined  to  be  angry.  But  what 
was  the  use  ?  His  friend  had  guessed  the  truth,  much  as 
Fitzgerald  had  tried  to  conceal  it  from  him,  and  also  from 
himself.     Yes,  he  was  anxious ;  it  had  come  to  that. 

' '  Is  she  a  braw  lass  ?" 

"I  think  you  mean  handsome?  No,  she  is  not  imposing, 
if  that  is  what  you  mean.  But  she  is  exceedingly  pretty.  I 
can  talk  to  you  about  her  with  impunity,  for  yoii  don't  know 
her  name.  She  is  very  pretty,  and  very  winning  and  tender- 
hearted, and  clever  too.  Think  of  her  being  content  to  wait 
on  and  on  like  this,  while  I  am  fl^oundering  about  without  any 
certain  prospects  whatever!" 

"  Content  to  wait!"  exclaimed  Ross.  "  Goodness  me,  what 
would  be  the  worth  of  her  if  she  were  not  content  to  wait ! 


A  PROSPECT.  233 

A  fine  kind  of  lass  to  have  that  would  be !  And  ye  have  two 
pounds  a  week  as  a  certainty,  with  constant  small  addeetions  ? 
Get  her  over,  man,  and  marry  her.  Two  pounds  a  week !  The 
great  majority  of  the  human  race  live  on  far  less ;  and  what  is 
good  for  the  miickle  is  no  bad  for  the  pickle." 

This  bold  and  sudden  challenge  startled  him ;  but  was  not  the 
wild  project  as  beautiful  as  it  was  wild  ?  The  thought  of  it ! 
What  if  Kitty  were  really  to  consent  ?  They  could  take  a 
couple  of  small  rooms  somewhere,  and  work  and  wait  in  pa- 
tience with  love  and  blessed  content  their  constant  companions, 
until  the  happier  time  came.  Would  it  not  be  fine  in  after- 
life, when  things  had  gone  well  with  them,  to  be  able  to  talk  of 
their  early  struggle,  and  of  their  adventures  and  their  fears 
and  hopes  ?  Kitty's  letters  had  not  been  very  cheerful  of  late : 
might  not  this  sudden  challenge  deliver  her  from  the  bond  of 
despondency  ? 

But  he  dared  not  make  so  fateful  a  proposal  without  much 
anxious  care;  and,  as  it  turned  out,  on  the  very  next  even- 
ing something  happened  that  promised  to  aid  him  most  ma- 
terially. 

When  he  had  got  through  his  appointed  hour,  and  had  risen 
to  leave,  Mrs.  Chetwynd  said  to  him — obviously  with  a  little 
embarrassment : 

' '  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I — I  want  to  explain  something.  You  know 
you  are  on  such  friendly  terms  with  us — at  least  I  hope  so — I 
hope  you  feel  quite  at  home  in  the  house — it  is  rather  difficult 
to  speak  about  money  matters.  But  they  have  to  be  spoken 
about ;  for  every  one  must  live,  I  suppose.  And — and,  in  fact, 
Mary  was  saying  that  a  great  deal  more  of  your  time  was  being 
occupied  than  appeared  to  be  the  case — " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  won't  speak  of  it,"  said  he.  "  My  time  is 
not  so  valuable." 

"Everybody's  time  is  valuable,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a 
smile,  "for  it  is  easy  to  make  it  so.  Mary  was  saying  you 
must  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  looking  over  these  new 
books — " 

"  That  is  a  pleasure  to  myself." 

"Now,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  is  it  fair?  I  have  a  frightful  task 
to  get  through  with,  and  you  won't  let  me  alone.  If  Mr.  Sco- 
bell  were  in  England,  I  should  have  asked  him.     However,  here 


234  SHANDON  BELLS. 

is  the  truth;  that  my  conscience  won't  allow  me  to  occupy 
so  much  of  your  time  on  the  present  terms,  and  I  propose  to 
make  a  difference.  If,"  said  she,  rather  hesitatingly — "if  you 
would  kindly  take  that  envelope  with  you,  you  will  find  in  it  the 
arrears — a  small  sum,  but  my  conscience  will  be  clear — and 
now,  not  another  word — for  I've  got  through  with  it,  and  I  am 
quite  happy.     Now  good-night,  and  not  a  word." 

"  Not  of  thanks  ?"  said  he. 

"No;  good-night;  go  away,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  light 
little  .laugh:  she  was  clearly  very  well  pleased  to  have  got  it 
over. 

In  this  open  and  unaddressed  envelope  he  found  a  check, 
drawn  out  in  Mary  Chetwynd's  clear  and  precise  hand,  and 
signed  by  her  aunt,  for  £65.  The  rapidest  of  calculations 
showed  him  what  this  meant.  He  was  to  have  two  hundred 
a  year,  then,  instead  of  one !  The  vision  that  this  opened  up 
left  no  room  for  those  oversensitive  perplexities  that  he  had 
laid  before  his  friend  Ross.  His  heart  was  beating  too  quick- 
ly. The  question  was,  what  arguments,  what  entreaties,  what 
pretty  phrases,  would  bring  Kitty  to  him  from  over  the  sea. 

He  walked  rapidly,  he  knew  not  whither.  The  darkness  was 
pleasant.  Never  had  he  struggled  so  with  the  composition  of 
any  leading  article  affecting  the  interests  of  India,  or  China,  or 
Peru.  He  tried  to  meet  beforehand  every  possible  objection. 
He  thought  of  all  the  nice  things  he  could  say  to  win  her  con- 
sent. At  what  hour  he  got  home  to  his  lodgings  he  did  not 
quite  know ;  but  that  important  letter  was  yet  far  from  being 
arranged. 

It  took  him,  indeed,  the  whole  night  to  write  it;  destroying 
numberless  copies  that  seemed  to  him  to  leave  a  loop-hole  of 
escape  here  or  there.  He  felt  that  Kitty's  letters  had  been  some- 
what cold  and  matter-of-fact  of  late;  he  was  afraid  she  might 
judge  this  one  coldly ;  he  had  to  make  everything  safe,  so  that 
she  should  feel  the  future  was  absolutely  secure.  And  when  at 
last  he  did  go  out  to  post  this  letter  at  the  nearest  pillar  let- 
ter-box, behold!  the  wan  gray  light  of  daybreak  was  stealing 
over  the  skies,  and  far  away  there  was  the  rumble  of  the  first  of 
the  carts. 

I  do  not  know  who  was  the  Postmaster-General  at  that  pre- 
cise time,  but  have  no  doubt  that  when  Fitzgerald  dropped 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  235 

the  heavy  letter  under  the  metal  lid,  he  was  as  impatient  with 
him  as  Juliet  was  with  her  nux-se. 

"Love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts, 
Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's  beams, 
Driving  back  shadows  over  low'ring  hills : 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinioned  doves  draw  love. 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings. 
Now  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 
Of  this  day's  journey — " 

Well,  the  sun  was  not  yet  quite  so  high ;  but  it  was  slowly 
spreading  abroad  its  beams,  and  the  world  of  London  was 
awaking.  Fitzgerald  was  in  no  humor  for  sleep ;  he  thought 
he  would  rather  go  away  down  to  the  river  to  have  a  look  at 
a  little  green  and  white  house  there ;  and  there  was  a  light  as 
of  the  dawn  on  his  face. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SOME  CORRESPONDENCE. 


Yes  ;  there  was  no  doubt  of  it ;  during  the  months  that  had 
elapsed  since  his  hurried  visit  to  Cork,  Kitty's  letters  had 
grown  much  more  cold,  or,  at  least,  much  more  reserved  and 
matter-of-fact,  while  now  and  again  there  was  a  tone  of  dis- 
appointment running  through  them  which  he  had  striven  to 
overlook  at  the  moment.  Now,  as  he  re-read  them  with  this 
glorious  prospect — this  near  and  shining  future — before  him, 
he  sought  for  reasonable  explanations  and  excuses,  and  easily 
found  them.  The  spring  had  been  wet  and  boisterous,  and 
Kitty's  spirits  were  readily  affected  by  the  weather  and  its  dis- 
comforts. Then  she  had  had  a  good  deal  of  travelling;  and 
that  would  account  for  the  curtness  of  some  of  the  notes,  Kitty 
being  ordinarily  a  most  profuse  letter-writer.  And  then  again 
the  news  that  he  had  had  it  in  liis  power  to  send  her  was  not 
of  the  most  cheering  description,  thougli  he  had  tried  to  put 
the  best  face  possible  on  matters.  Altogether,  looking  over 
these  letters  again,  and  regarding  them  by  this  new  light,  ho 


236  SHANDON  BELLS. 

could  find  nothing  disquieting  in  them ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
were  quite  natural  in  the  circumstances:  the  question  was, 
How  would  Kitty  write  now  ? 

He  could  not  doubt  how  she  would  answer  his  appeal.  The 
summer  was  coming  on,  with  all  its  beautiful  new  hopes,  new 
desires,  new  possibilities.  During  that  winter  Kitty  had  again 
and  again,  and  not  at  all  to  his  sorrow,  pretty  plainly  hinted 
that  she  was  dissatisfied  with  her  present  way  of  living.  It 
had  become  distressingly  monotonous.  There  were  no  ambi- 
tious hopes  to  lure  her  on.  Only  once  had  she  expressed  her- 
self as  being  pleased  with  her  surroundings ;  and  that  was  on 
a  professional  visit  to  Dublin,  where,  instead  of  having  to  go  to 
the  usual  lodgings,  she  had  been  the  guest,  along  with  Miss  Pa- 
tience, of  the  wife  of  the  manager  of  a  theatre  there ;  and  that 
lady  had  introduced  Kitty  to  a  number  of  people,  and  made 
her  life  a  little  more  cheerful  for  her  for  a  time.  Then  she 
had  to  return  to  the  provinces,  and  to  miserable  rooms,  and 
the  fatigues  of  travelling;  and  as  the  weather  happened  to 
be  exceptionally  bad,  it  was  no  wonder  she  should  grow  tired, 
or  even  querulous,  at  times.  And  when  people  are  disheart- 
ened, they  do  not  write  long  and  playful  letters,  full  of  pretty 
sentiment  and  pleasant  humor.  How  could  Kitty  be  cheer- 
ful and  amusing  with  her  fingers  benumbed  with  the  cold, 
her  feet  wet,  aud  adverse  winds  blowing  the  smoke  down  the 
chimney  ? 

But  now  all  this  would  be  altered.  There  would  be  no  more 
need  for  letters.  Kitty  herself  would  be  there  to  talk  to,  to 
talk,  and  submit  to  be  teased.  And  what  happy  excursions 
would  there  be  on  the  clear  summer  mornings,  wandering  about 
Chelsea  to  fix  on  their  future  and  permanent  home !  As  for 
himself,  he  would  not  choose,  even  in  imagination,  until  Kitty 
should  come  over.  She  ought  to  have  her  share  of  the  respon- 
sibility. And  what  her  eyes  approved  he  did  not  think  he 
should  find  much  fault  with. 

That  anxiously  awaited  letter  was  a  long  while  in  coming; 
many  and  many  a  time,  when  he  heard  the  postman  ascending 
the  stair  outside,  had  his  heart  beat  quick  only  to  be  disappoint- 
ed. But  at  last  it  came;  and  to  his  astonishment  he  found  on 
the  back  of  the  envelope  the  name  of  a  Killarney  hotel.  He 
hastily  opened  it — the  letter  was  written  on  hotel  paper — in  fact, 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  237 

there  was  an  engraving  of  Lough  Leane  at  the  head  of  the  page ! 
How  had  Kitty  got  there  ?  She  had  not  said  a  word  of  any 
such  intention. 

Breathlessly  he  ran  his  eyes  over  the  various  sheets — for 
this  time  Kitty  had  written  at  length — hoping  to  find  some 
phrase  decisive  of  her  reply.  She  had  got  his  letter,  evidently ; 
but  nowhere  was  there  any  positive  acquiescence  or  positive  re- 
fusal so  far  as  he  could  gather  from  that  hurried  and  uncertain 
glance.  And  so — with  more  dread  of  disappointment  than  ac- 
tual disappointment — and  still  with  some  trembling  hope — he 
forced  himself  to  read  the  letter  systematically  through. 

"My  dear  Willie,— Your  letter  has  followed  me  here;  and 
I  will  never  forgive  you  for  not  having  driven  me  to  go  to  Kil- 
larney  many  a  day  ago.  I  suppose  it  was  all  because  of  your 
jealousy:  you  wanted  to  bring  me  here  yourself:  as  if  the  place 
belonged  to  you !  And  the  idea  of  my  having  been  many  a 
time  at  Limerick,  and  Mallow,  and  Cork — the  idea  of  ray 
having  had  to  sing  the  Killarney  song  in  the  panorama — with- 
out even  having  been  to  this  paradise!  I  suppose  I  thought  it 
was  too  familiar,  because  I  know  all  the  places  in  the  photo- 
graphs in  the  windows ;  but  neither  they,  nor  the  panorama, 
nor  anything  else,  could  have  told  me  of  the  charm  of  this  beau- 
tiful neighborhood.  We  were  out  last  night  in  a  boat;  there 
was  no  moon;  but  the  stars  were  lovely.  We  rowed  to  Innis- 
fallen ;  and  I  sung  one  or  two  songs — the  sound  was  so  strange 
when  we  got  near  the  island !  I  was  wondering  whether  the 
ghosts  in  the  Abbey  would  hear.  What  a  beautiful  night  it 
was! 

"Of  course  you  are  asking  what  brought  me  here.  Well, 
dear  Willie,  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  bother,  and  some  hard 
work  of  late ;  and  I  thought  I  had  earned  a  little  holiday ;  and 
everybody  said  we  ought  to  go  to  Killarney  in  the  spring ;  and 
Miss  Patience  and  I  have  done  it  as  cheaply  as  we  could. 
Where  in  the  world  could  we  have  come  to  for  such  perfect 
peace  and  rest  ?  This  hotel  is  nearly  empty ;  when  we  went 
to  Muckross  Abbey  and  the  Tore  Cascade  and  all  round  there, 
we  were  quite  by  ourselves,  and  when  we  goouton  the  lake  there 
are  no  tourists  anywhere.  The  day  we  arrived,  however,  there 
was  a  fearful  tempest.     I  said  to  myself.  Goodness  gracious! 


238  SHANDON  BELLS. 

is  this  Killarney  ?  I  thought  Killarney  was  always  quite  still, 
with  moonlight  on  it  (as  it  was  in  the  panorama).  The  wind 
and  the  rain  were  dreadful;  the  mountains  were  quite  black 
except  when  the  clouds  crossed  and  hid  them ;  and  the  waves 
on  the  lake  smashed  on  the  rocks  at  Innisfallen,  and  sprung  up 
in  foam  just  like  the  sea.  But  noAV  everything  is  quiet  and 
lovely;  and  I  feel  as  if  this  was  the  Vale  of  Avoca  that  I 
should  like  to  rest  in,  with  the  friends  Hove  best;  only  I  sup- 
pose there  never  is  rest  like  that  for  everybody;  trouble  is 
the  policeman  that  steps  in  and  orders  you  to  move  on. 

"Dear  Willie,  I  feel  quite  afraid  to  begin  and  try  to  answer 
your  letter;  for  I  know  you  won't  understand  what  I  mean 
about  it.  I  entirely  agree  with  you  about  a  private  life — it  has 
been  the  wish  of  my  heart  for  many  a  day ;  I  am  quite  tired  of 
the  annoyances  of  my  public  one.  People  think  it  is  a  fine 
easy  thing  to  earn  your  living  by  merely  singing  songs ;  I  wish 
they  knew  what  hard  work  and  uncertain  work  it  is.  Of 
course  one's  vanity  is  pleased  sometimes,  when  you  have  nice 
things  said  to  you,  or  when  the  audience  is  very  enthusiastic; 
but  what  a  temporary  thing  that  is !  When  I  staid  with  Mrs. 
Milroy  in  Dublin  I  was  quite  delighted  with  the  little  occupa- 
tions and  visits  and  amusements  with  which  they  passed  the 
time;  and  I  know  that  would  suit  me;  and  as  for  your  sugges- 
tion that  I  might  some  day  regret  giving  up  tliis  kind  of  life, 
you  might  have  saved  yourself  all  the  arguing  against  it :  it  is 
the  last  thing,  I  Jcnoiv,  that  will  ever  occur  to  me ;  and  I  should 
be  ready  this  minute  to  give  it  up,  if  I  could  do  so  safely. 

"  People  never  do  get  what  tliey  want,  I  suppose;  and  I  sup- 
pose it  is  better  for  them  in  the  long-run.  And  for  you  to 
think,  just  now,  when  you  are  making  a  path  for  yourself  that 
will  lead  to  future  fame,  of  hampering  yourself  in  the  way 
you  propose — well,  I  can  understand  your  dreaming  of  it,  for 
you  were  always  so  romantic  and  strange  in  your  notions,  but 
I  have  got  worldly  wisdom  enough  for  both  of  us,  and  I  can  see 
what  a  pity  it  would  be.  When  you  want  a  clear  way  for  your 
genius,  you  tie  all  this  domestic  anxiety  round  your  neck! 
Consider  how  precarious  you  would  be.  That  old  lady  might 
die  at  any  moment,  and  then — !  I  am  afraid,  dear  Willie,  that 
your  literary  prospects  by  themselves  wouldn't  warrant  you 
in  doing  as  you  propose ;  and  do  you  know  I,  for  one,  am  not  so 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  239 

sorry  there  should  be  such  difficulty  and  hard  work,  for  if  there 
was  not,  wouldn't  everybody  be  at  it,  and  where  would  be  the 
glory  of  making  a  name  for  yourself,  if  everybody  could  step 
in  and  do  it  ?  I  know  you  distrust  your  powers.  I  don't ;  and 
I  should  think  myself  mean  and  unscrupulous  if  I  allowed  my 
private  wishes  to  interfere  with  your  future.  I  know  some 
day  you  will  have  reason  to  thank  me.  Was  it  not  me  who 
sent  you  away  from  that  miserable  little  office  in  Cork  to  take 
the  place  that  your  genius  entitles  you  to  ?     I  as  good  as  said : 

'Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But  while  Fame  elates  thee, 

Oh  !  still  remember  me ! 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest. 
Oh  !  then  remember  me !' 

I  know  you  always  laugh  at  my  poetry ;  but  I  like  poetry  that 
one  can  understand,  that  has  common-sense  in  it ;  and  there  is 
common-sense  in  that.  I  expect  great  things  of  you ;  and  so 
would  the  world  if  it  knew  as  much  as  I  did ;  and  it  seems  to 
me  that,  with  gifts  such  as  yours,  you  have  no  right  to  throw 
up  your  career,  or  at  least  seriously  hamper  it,  for  the  mere 
gratification  of  a  piece  of  romance.  But  that  was  always  like 
you,  Willie,  You  look  at  things  in  such  a  strange  way. 
You  don't  seem  to  value  things  as  other  people  do ;  and  you 
don't  appear  to  consider  it  is  your  duty  to  get  on  in  the  world, 
and  make  money,  and  a  security  for  your  old  age.  I  have 
seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world ;  I  have  seen  what  money  can 
do;  what  good  you  can  do  with  it;  how  independent  it  makes 
you.  I  believe  if  it  had  not  been  for  me  you  would  have  kept 
on  in  Cork,  simply  because  you  had  the  chance  of  living  a 
half-sailor,  half -gamekeeper  life  at  Inisheen ;  and  you  would 
never  have  thought  of  the  time  when  you  would  no  longer  be 
able  to  go  after  rock-pigeons.  And  so,  dear  Willie,  you  must 
try  and  be  a  little  less  romantic  in  the  mean  time,  and  do 
justice  to  the  gifts  you  have ;  and  by-and-by  you  will  tluink 
me,  and  say  that  everything  has  been  for  the  best. 

"Now  I  know  you  have  quite  mi.sunderstood  me;  and  you 
are  angry,  in  your  wild  way,  and  accuse  mc  of  being  merce- 
nary— me!  I  have  never  had  enough  money  to  know  what 
mercenariness  was.     And  of  course  you  are  impatient  that 


240  SHANDON  BELLS. 

everything  can't  come  about  just  as  if  it  were  a  story-book. 
Alas !  I  wish  it  could,  and  everybody  be  satisfied ;  but  there  is 
always  trouble,  even  to  those  who  make  the  strongest  fight 
against  the  inclinations  of  their  heart,  and  try  to  do  what  is 
best  for  every  one  around  them.  Just  imagine  me  lecturing 
you  like  this  !  And  yet  you  know,  dear  Willie,  that  you  are 
too  poetical ;  and  so  I  must  be  the  commonplace  pei'son — even 
here,  with  Killarney  before  me.  There  was  a  dreadful  accident 
to  the  coach  as  we  were  coming.  There  is  a  steep  hill  some 
miles  before  you  get  here,  and  one  of  the  two  horses  fell,  and 
the  force  of  the  coach  dragged  it  along,  and  the  poor  beast's 
knees  were  horrible  to  look  at.  It  just  managed  to  walk  the 
distance,  though  I  thought  every  moment  it  would  go  down. 
But  what  a  fine  thing  it  must  be  to  have  a  carriage  and  one's 
own  horses,  and  drive  all  through  these  beautiful  places,  quite 
at  your  leisure,  and  without  a  thought  for  the  future!  Just 
fancy  not  having  to  care  a  farthing  whether  June  or  August  is 
near  or  far  ofi^ ;  nothing  but  to  enjoy  the  present  moment,  and 
drive  from  one  hotel  to  another,  irrespective  of  time  and  with- 
out a  thought  about  the  cost !  I  think  people  who  can  have 
such  happiness  to  themselves  ought  to  be  very  kind  to  other 
people.  I  know  I  should  try  to  be.  I  can  imagine  myself  driv- 
ing through  the  country  like  that ;  and  if  there  was  any  trou- 
ble, it  would  be  the  thought  that  I  could  not  make  all  the  poor 
people  one  might  meet  just  as  contented  as  one's  self.  One 
might  meet,  who  knows,  some  young  fellow  going  away  from 
his  sweetheart,  forced  by  fate,  and  very  much  troubled  about 
his  prospects ;  and  a  letter  of  introduction  or  something  might 
save  misery.  But  these  are  all  idle  dreams ;  and  one  must  take 
the  world  as  it  is. 

' '  I  am  so  glad  that  that  kind  old  lady  has  again  befriended 
you ;  and  hope  that  something  substantial  and  permanent 
may  come  of  her  friendship  for  you ;  but  even  if  these  hopes 
are  disappointed,  I  am  convinced  you  did  right  in  going  away 
to  London.  Genius  such  as  yours  is  a  trust.  You  had  no  right 
to  waste  your  time  fishing  and  boating  and  shooting.  Even 
if  it  were  to  be  decided  by  fate  that  you  and  I  were  never  to 
meet  again,  do  you  not  think  I  should  watch  your  career,  of 
which  I  am  far  more  certain  than  you  are  ?  Of  course  I  don't 
say  that  success  is  to  come  all  at  once.     I  do  believe  you  are 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  241 

working  your  best;  though  I  don't  think  from  what  you 
say  that  that  Scotch  artist — I  tliought  tlie  Scotch  were  so  prac- 
tical !— does  you  any  good.  I  suppose  he  thinks  it  would  be 
romantic  to  live  in  a  garret ;  and  if  I  was  a  barefoot  lassie 
perhaps  it  would ;  but  now  again  you  will  accuse  me  of  mer- 
cenariness  just  because  I  have  to  talk  common-sense.  I  don't 
believe  there's  anybody  in  the  world  cares  less  for  money  than 
I  do ;  but  I  see  what  money  can  do,  and  how  it  gives  people 
time  to  be  thoughtful  and  kind  to  those  around  them ;  and 
in  any  case  I  am  not  going  to  be  the  one  to  wreck  such  a  ca- 
reer as  you  have  before  you,  Scotchman  or  no  Scotchman. 

"  I  have  been  so  much  occupied  here  that  I  forget  wliether 
I  thanked  jow  for  the  volume  of  political  speeches  that  you 
sent  Miss  Patience ;  but  at  all  events  I  was  asked,  and  intended 
to  do  so,  with  her  best  compliments.  The  book  seems  to  be 
highly  appreciated ;  she  has  scarcely  stirred  out  since  we  came 
here.  As  for  our  stay  here,  that  is  quite  uncertain ;  but  I  am 
in  love  with  the  scenery  (it  is  far  prettier  and  not  as  grand 
or  wild  as  I  expected,  and  you  know  I  prefer  quietness  to  Al- 
pine terrors),  and  I  shall  tear  myself  away  with  great  regret. 
We  make  our  way  on  to  Limerick,  where  I  have  four  con- 
certs— the  old  mill-wheel  again  after  this  paradise !  So,  dear 
Willie,  you  need  not  write  here,  if  you  are  writing,  but  to  the 
Post-office,  Limerick,  and  I  shall  expect  a  letter  saying  that 
you  know  I  am  acting  in  the  best  kindness,  and  laying  myself 
open  to  the  charge  of  being  a  money-grasping  young  woman 
(which  is  absurd,  you  know,  for  if  I  was,  where  is  there  any  to 
grasp?),  when  all  I  want  is  to  act  prudently  for  you  and  me. 
Good-by,  dear  Willie.  If  there's  any  one  wishes  you  a  speed- 
ily secure  j)osition  and  great  fame  and  reputation  such  as  you 
deserve,  there's  no  one  wishes  that  more  heartily  than, 

' '  Your  affectionate  Kitty. 

"  v. ^.—Thursday  morning.  Dearest  Willie,  this  letter  does 
read  so  busincss-lilce  that  I  am  ashamed  of  it;  and  yet  I  can't 
burn  it,  and  have  to  go  over  all  the  arguments  again.  It  quite 
wore  out  my  small  brain  last  night ;  and  there  were  such  diffi- 
culties, too — such  interruptions— that  it  seems  all  confused.  I 
meant  it  to  be  so  kind,  and  it  reads  like  a  school-book.  Nev- 
er mind,  Willie;  you  know  I  am  not  mercenary;  and  that  no 

11 


242  SHANDON  BELLS, 

one  wishes  you  to  get  on  more  heartily  than  I  do.  I  meant  the 
letter  to  be  very  kind  indeed;  and  at  least  you  will  be  pleased 
that  I  am  delighted  with  Killarney.  Good-by.  The  morning 
is  loA'ely ;  and  we  are  just  going  out  for  a  row.'' 

"Going  out  for  a  row  ?"  he  repeated  mechanically  to  himself. 
Who  were  going  out  for  a  row  ?  Miss  Patience,  according  to 
Kitty's  own  showing,  scarcely  stirred  out  of  the  hotel  at -all. 
And  what  were  they  doing  there  ?  How"  had  he  heard  nothing 
about  it  ?  What  did  all  this  mean — about  the  trouble  of  the 
world,  and  the  sacrifice  of  one's  inclinations,  and  a  future  for 
him  of  which  she  was  to  be  the  distant  spectator  ?  He  read  the 
letter  over  again,  in  a  bewildered  sort  of  way.  It  was  not  like 
Kitty — it  was  not  like  the  willful,  petulant,  loving,  and  teasing 
Kitty  at  all.  It  is  true  that  her  letters  had  for  some  time  past 
been  reserved — occasionally  huri-ied  and  curt;  but  here  was  a 
long  rambling  letter  laying  bare  all  her  thoughts,  and  it  did 
not  sound  as  if  it  was  Kitty  who  was  speaking.  And  Avas  she 
laying  bare  all  her  thoughts  ?  he  asked  himself.  Was  it  her 
great  regai'd  for  his  future  fame  that  caused  her  to  refuse  his 
appeal? — an  appeal  that  seemed  to  him  to  be  so  simple  and 
natural  and  opportune. 

Then  he  eagerly  grasped  at  the  notion  that  perhaps  his  ab- 
rupt i^roposal  had  startled  her.  This  was  but  maiden  coyness. 
She  had  been  alarmed  by  the  definite  request  that  she  should 
come  over  and  be  married,  and  occupy  these  humble  apartments 
until  a  more  suitable  dwelling  could  be  chosen.  These  ram- 
bling arguments  of  hers  wei*e  a  mere  girlish  trick  of  fence. 
Modesty  was  sheltering  itself  behind  the  guise  of  prudence. 
And  he  could  have  laughed  at  Kitty's  imploring  him  to  believe 
that  she  was  not  mercenary— as  if  it  were  likely  he  could  sus- 
pect her  of  that ! 

Still,  there  was  something  very  strange  and  disquieting  in 
the  tone  of  this  letter;  and  when  he  sat  down  to  answer,  he 
experienced  the  novel  sensation  of  being  afraid.  Afraid  of 
Kitty !  If  he  could  have  caught  her  by  both  hands,  he  would 
not  have  been  afraid.  But  that  was  the  mischief  of  it — the 
great  distance  between  them.  That  was  why  he  was  afraid — 
afraid  of  the  misunderstandings  that  letters  cause.  He  wrote 
hurx'iedly:  he  seemed  to  have  so  much  to  sav;  and  wished  to 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  243 

say  it  all  at  once ;  and,  moreover,  he  must  needs  write  in  good 
spirits  if  he  would  drive  away  her  despondency. ' 

"My  darling  Kitty, — I  have  received  your  extraordinary 
letter.  It  does  not  sound  as  if  you  had  written  it  at  all. 
Why  are  you  so  serious  ?  What  has  frightened  you  ?  Are 
you  the  same  Kitty  that,  when  I  first  came  to  London,  used 
to  write  every  day,  nearly,  'Make  haste;  make  haste;  for  I 
love  you  so'  ?  And  now  tliere  is  not  a  word  of  love  in  this 
long  letter,  but  a  great  deal  of  down-heartedness,  and  fear,  and 
political  economy,  and  Benjamin  Franklin  sort  of  wisdom. 
And  then,  my  pretty-eyed  philosopher,  your  facts  are  a  little 
askew.  You  accuse  me  of  being  too  poetical ;  and  if  to  love 
you  is  to  be  romantic  and  poetical,  I  will  admit  tlie  charge. 
But  if  you  mean  that  I  allow  poetry  or  anything  else  to  in- 
terfere with  my  care  for  the  future,  you  are  all  wrong.  You 
don't  know  how  I'igidly  I've  saved  up  every  possible  penny 
since  I  came  to  London.  I  don't  go  taking  holidays  at  Kil- 
larney;  when  I  have  to  go  for  a  journey,  it's  all  because  of 
a  wicked  young  woman  who  won't  be  reasonable  and  sensi- 
ble, and  come  and  be  married  at  once.  And  really  and  serious- 
ly, Kitty,  what  have  you  to  fear  ?  I  have  £110  saved ;  and  £200 
a  year  is  quite  enough  to  make  a  start  with,  in  a  quiet  way; 
and  if  things  go  better,  won't  you  be  rather  glad  in  after-life 
that  you  and  I  were  together  during  the  poorer  time  ?  You 
talk  about  my  being  pi-ecarious  (your  English,  Miss  Kitty,  has 
not  been  improved  by  the  Killaniey  air),  but  is  not  every- 
thing and  everybody  more  or  less  so?  You  are  like  Miss 
Patience,  thinking  that  literature  is  so  precarious  a  profession 
because  a  tile  might  fall  on  your  head  from  a  roof.  No  doubt 
this  old  lady  might  die,  but  so  might  you  or  I ;  and  surely, 
since  life  is  so  uncertain,  common-sense  would  counsel  you  to 
make  the  best  of  it  while  you  may.  Life  is  not  such  a  very 
long  thing;  youth  is  still  shorter;  and  surely  when  two  people 
love  each  other,  and  have  a  little  faith  in  the  future,  and  a  rea- 
sonable security  in  the  present,  even  Benjamin  Franklin,  Poor 
Richard,  Catherine  Romayne,  and  similar  philosophei's  might 
admit  that  it  would  be  unwise  to  throw  away  a  certain  hap- 
piness on  the  chance  of  some  good  to  come.  It  seems  so 
strange  to  have  to  talk  to  you  like  this,  Kitty,  even  as  a  joke. 


244  SHANDON  BELLS. 

I  can  scarcely  believe  this  letter  of  yours  to  be  sei'ious.  Who 
was  it  who  declared  that  she  could  live  on  nothing;  who  im- 
plored me  never  to  leave  her ;  who  asked  me  to  '  live  in  her 
heart,  and  pay  no  rent'  ?  And  all  that  happened  little  more 
than  a  year  ago.     What  has  changed  her  so  in  so  short  a  time  ? 

' '  I  know.  They  say  that  once  in  every  seven  years,  on  a 
beautiful  summer  morning  just  at  sunrise,  the  O'Donoghue  of 
the  Lakes  comes  down  fi*om  his  magic  home  in  the  mountains, 
riding  a  white  horse,  and  accompanied  by  fairies.  He  rides 
across  Lough  Leane,  and  wherever  he  goes  on  the  dry  land 
all  his  old  jjossessions  and  splendor  appear  again ;  and  when 
he  has  seen  that  everything  is  right  he  sets  out  for  home  again. 
Now  no  doubt  you  have  heard  that,  if  you  have  courage 
enoixgh,  you  can  go  with  him,  and  cross  Lough  Leane  dry- 
shod,  and  accompany  hira  to  his  home  in  the  mountains,  where, 
before  bidding  you  good-by,  he  will  present  you  with  part  of 
his  buried  treasure.  Have  I  found  you  out.  Miss  Kitty  ?  Are 
you  watching  for  the  O'Donoghue  of  the  Lakes  ?  Is  that  why 
your  small  head  is  stuffed  with  '  mercenariness'  ?  Are  you 
so  anxious  to  be  rich,  and  drive  through  the  country  with  a 
cai'riage  and  pair,  that  you  get  up  every  morning  at  that  ho- 
tel before  sunrise  and  wander  away  down  to  the  lake-side,  and 
look  across  and  watch  for  the  white  horse  and  its  rider  ?  Is 
that  the  peculiar  charm  you  have  found  in  Killarney  ?  And 
of  course  the  want  of  sleep,  and  the  going  about  so  much 
alone,  and  the  witchery  of  the  whole  thing,  have  dazed  you  a 
little,  and  made  you  apprehensive,  so  that  I  can  scarcely  be- 
lieve it  is  you  who  are  speaking  to  me. 

"My  dearest  Kitty,  you  must  really  throw  aside  these  un- 
reasonable fears— you,  who  used  to  be  so  fearless,  too!  If  you 
are  afi*aid  to  take  such  a  decisive  stej)  as  coming  to  London  by 
yourself,  I  will  come  over  and  fetch  you.  I  am  entitled  to  a 
long  holiday.  Dearest  Kitty,  how  would  it  do  for  me  to  come 
over  and  meet  you  at  Limerick,  and  stay  there  long  enough 
to  be  married,  and  go  back  over  the  Killarney  route  ?  I  am 
confident  I  could  take  you  to  beautiful  places  you  are  not  like- 
ly to  find  on  the  ordinary  tourist  route.  Write — no,  telegraph 
— one  word,  '  Yes' — that  can't  take  up  much  of  your  time — 
and  I  will  come  over  at  once.  And  then,  you  see,  as  one  must 
be  practical  and  business-like  in  order  to  please  you,  getting 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  245 

married  in  that  quiet  way  would  be  very  inexpensive:  you 
would  have  no  white  silk  gown  to  buy,  and  I  should  have 
no  lockets  to  get  for  the  brideniaids.  Now,  Kitty,  take  heart 
of  grace,  and  telegraph  at  once.  If  you  telegraph  from  Killar- 
ney,  I  will  go  right  on  to  Limerick  and  wait  for  you  there. 
Don't  think  about  it ;  do  it.  If  you  sit  down  and  begin  to  make 
out  all  sorts  of  calculations,  as  if  you  were  the  secretaiy  of  a 
life-insurance  company,  of  course  you  will  arrive  at  no  decision 
at  all,  but  only  plunge  yourself  in  gloom.  What  a  trip  that 
will  be,  if  you  will  only  say  '  Yes' !  If  you  went  by  Bandon 
and  Dunmanway,  we  will  come  back  by  Inchigeelah;  and  of 
course  we  shall  go  down  to  Inisheen ;  and  ])erhaps  to  the  stream 
there,  some  moonlight  night,  just  to  let  Don  Fierna  and  the 
rest  of  them  know  that  you  had  not  quite  forgotten.  You 
have  not  quite  forgotten,  Kitty  ?  I  had  the  date  engraved  on 
the  ring  you  gave  me,  and  then  I  grudged  the  expense,  for  it 
was  useless.  There  are  some  things  that  ai'e  engraven  on  the 
heart;  they  become  a  pai't  of  you;  you  can  put  them  away 
from  you  only  when  you  put  life  away;  and  I  do  not  think 
that  either  of  us  is  likely  to  forget  the  vow  of  that  night. 

"Well,  now,  Kitty,  the  inhuman  wretch  who  occupies  the 
quaint  small  house  by  the  river  that  I  told  you  of  still  re- 
mains in  it ;  I  often  take  a  turn  round  that  way  to  see  if  there 
is  not  a  boaixl  up ;  but  no,  the  wretched  limpet  still  clings  to 
his  shell.  Never  mind;  we  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  walk 
about  and  pick  out  a  comfortable  little  place  for  ourselves;  for, 
you  see,  I  can  always  use  the  fine  mornings  for  walking  out, 
and  shift  on  my  work  to  the  time  of  rain.  And  then,  when  we 
give  ourselves  a  whole  holiday,  Kitty,  there  is  no  end  to  the 
beautiful,  quiet  places  one  can  get  to  from  this  neighborhood.  I 
have  explored  them  all;  and  the  whole  time  I  was  thinking, 
'I  know  Kitty  will  be  charmed  with  this  place;  and  I  am 
certain  she  never  could  have  been  here  before.'  Scarcely  any- 
body knows  what  beautiful  sequestered  spots  there  are  in  Rich- 
mond Park  alone.  Then,  you  see,  Kitty,  by  taking  those  fur- 
nished rooms  to  begin  with,  you  will  be  able  to  fall  into  house- 
keeping ways  by  degrees ;  and  we  shall  take  plenty  of  time  to 
choose  a  pretty  small  house,  and  put  things  into  it  just  as  we 
want  them.  You  will  be  surprised  at  the  knowledge  I  have 
acquired  of  the  prices  of  tables  and  chairs  and  carpets;  and 


246  SHANDON   BELLS. 

Ross — that  is  your  Scotch  friend — has  promised,  when  the  great 
time  comes,  to  present  you  with  a  tea-service  of  old  black  Wedg- 
wood that  he  picked  up  somewhere  in  Surrey,  and  that  is  about 
the  only  thing  of  value  that  he  possesses.  Just  fancy  your 
sitting-  in  state  at  your  own  tea-table  in  your  own  house! 
'  Will  you  have  another  cup  of  tea,  Mr.  Eoss  ?'  '  No,  thank 
you,  my  dear  Mi*s.  Fitzgerald,  but  if  you  would  sing  another 
of  those  Irish  songs,  that  is  what  I  would  like  to  have.'  Then 
you  go  to  the  piano :  of  course  we  must  hire  a  piano  the  very 
first  thing,  for  you  are  not  going  to  forget  your  music.  Miss 
Kitty,  when  you  enter  upon  domestic  slavery.  And  what 
about  '  The  Minstrel  Boy'  for  our  Scotchman  ?  Or  will  you 
make  him  cry  with  'Silent,  oh,  Moyle'?  Or  do  you  think  he 
will  care  as  much  for  '  The  Bells  of  Shandon'  as  we  do  ?  I 
think  not.  He  does  not  know  certain  associations.  He  can 
not  recall  the  white  Sunday  mornings;  and  the  quietude  of 
the  country  walks ;  and  Kitty  declaring  that  she  should  nev- 
er have  the  courage  to  marry  anybody,  and  that  her  proper 
role  in  life  was  to  be  an  old  maid. 

"  Come,  now,  Kitty !  You  have  a  tremendous  courage  when 
you  like.  Pull  yourself  together.  If  Miss  Patience  is  preach- 
ing political  economy,  tell  her  to  go  to  the  mischief.  I  am 
thinking  of  your  eyes  when  you  meet  me — at  LimericJc.  Will 
you  be  shy  and  coquettish  ?  Or  will  you  be  imperious  and  rid- 
ing the  high  horse?  I  know  you  can  be  in  any  mood  you 
choose ;  and  the  mood  I  would  have  you  choose  is  that  of  the 
Kitty  of  the  old,  beautiful,  love-sweetened  days,  not  this  timid, 
fearing,  business-like  Kitty  whom  I  don't  know  a  bit.  Who 
wrote,  'Just  tell  them  there's  a  poor  girl  in  Ireland  who  is 
breaking  her  heart  for  your  sake'?  I  know,  whatever  troubles 
you  may  be  thinking  of  now,  everything  will  look  quite 
bright  and  hopeful  when  I  get  hold  of  your  shoulders,  and 
challenge  your  eyes  to  do  anything  but  smile.  So  no  more  of 
your  despondency,  you  pretty,  black-eyed,  tiny  sweetheart ;  but 
one  word,  and  the  expenditure  of  one  shilling,  and  then  don't 
bother  your  head  any  more  about  it  until  you  see  me  at 
Limerick.  Then  I  will  take  command  of  you,  and  be  responsi- 
ble for  you ;  and  we  will  together  make  short  work  of  your  eco- 
nomical fears. 

"  This  from  one  who  knows  you  and  loves  you  far  too  well 


SOME   CORRESPONDENCE.  247 

to  believe  in  your  want  of  courage ;  and  who  sends  no  other 
message,  or  kisses,  or  anything  of  the  kind — for  he  is  bringing 
them.  W.  F." 

He  went  out,  and  walked  rapidly  to  the  pillar  letter-box,  and 
posted  the  letter;  there  seemed  so  little  time  to  lose.  And 
then  he  walked  back  more  slowly,  wondering  if  he  had  said 
everything  likely  to  entice  Kitty  to  a  decision. 

Just  as  he  was  entering  the  court-yard  the  postman  came 
along  with  the  second  morning  delivery,  and  he  had  two  letters 
for  Fitzgei-ald.  Master  WUlie  took  them  with  little  interest  (for 
he  was  still  thinking  of  the  phrases  he  had  used  in  the  appeal 
sent  over  the  sea),  and  opened  them  leisurely  as  he  was  going 
up  the  stair.     And  yet  the  first  of  these  read  oddly  enough. 

"Dear  Mr.  Fitzgerald, — I  wonder  if  you  could  spare  me 
a  few  minutes  to-morrow,  Wednesday,  evening  before  you  leave 
the  house.  Or,  if  that  is  inconvenient,  any  other  evening  will 
do  ;  but  to-morrow  evening  I  am  sui^e  to'be  at  home.  I  only 
want  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  you. 

' '  Yours  faithfully,  Mary  Chetwynd. " 

He  could  not  imagine  what  Miss  Chetwynd  could  have  to  say 
to  him ;  but  as  nothing  further  was  to  be  made  out  of  the  letter, 
he  put  it  in  his  pocket.  The  next  that  he  opened  was  written 
on  the  note-paper  of  a  hotel  in  Venice. 

' '  Dear  Fitz, — It  is  an  age  since  I  heard  anything  of  you ;  and 
I  have  seen  so  few  English  periodicals  that  I  have  no  means  of 
telling  how  you  are  getting  on.  Well,  I  hope.  You  have 
enthusiasm,  good  health,  and  an  insatiable  thirst  for  work: 
Pactolus  will  flow  your  way  sooner  or  later.  The  beast  of  a 
stream  doesn't  flow  my  way;  quite  the  reverse;  it  flies  at  my 
approach ;  hence  these  tears.  The  fact  is,  I  am  temporarily  very 
hard  up,  and  awkwardly  situated  as  well — I  can't  explain,  but 
you  may  guess ;  and  so,  to  get  out  of  these  embarrassments,  I 
have  taken  a  liberty  which  I  know  you  won't  mind,  for  it  cau't 
cause  you  any  inconvenience.  I  have  drawn  a  bill  on  you  at 
three  months  for  £150;  and  if  you  would  have  the  good-natui'e 
to  accept  it  on  presentation,  you  will  do  me  a  great  service; 


248  SHANDON  BELLS. 

and  of  course  you  will  suflFex'  no  harm,  for  it  will  be  taken  up 
long  before  that.  It  is  merely  the  use  of  your  signature  for  a 
few  weeks  that  I  want ;  and  I  sha'n't  forget  your  friendliness ; 
on  connaU  Vami  an  be>ioin. 

"  How  is  the  Lady  Iriningarde,  and  how  are  the  little  ringlets 
round  her  ears  ?  Be  a  good  boy,  and  marry  the  young  damsel 
decently  and  honorably  before  ihe  fides  pud ica — I  do  not  write 
Punica,  and  mean  no  such  thing — begins  to  show  the  strain  of 
time  and  distance ;  and  then  you  will  settle  down  into  proper 
domestic  ways,  and  run  no  risk  of  getting  into  scrapes  either  at 
home  or  abi'oad.  I  hope  Gifford  gives  you  plenty  to  do;  two 
guineas  are  much  too  little ;  but  I  suppose  you  make  it  help. 
Scobell  has  turned  out  to  be  a  mean  fellow ;  I  always  suspected 
guinea-pigs. 

"Yours  faithfully,  Hilton  Clarke." 

He  went  down  the  steps  again,  and  knocked  at  Ross's  door. 

"Come  in." 

He  entered,  and  found  the  Scotchman  smoking  an  after- 
breakfast  pipe,  seated  opposite  a  picture,  and  staring  at  it,  but 
with  neither  brushes  nor  palette  in  his  hand. 

"There!"  said  Fitzgerald,  triumphantly  handhig  him  the 
letter.     ' '  Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?" 

Ross  read  the  letter  through  deliberately,  and  handed  it  back. 

"Well?"  said  he.  "I  always  thought  him  a  scoundrel. 
Now  I  think  him  an  impudent  scoundrel.     What  moi'e  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  he  is  nothing  of  the  kind !"  said  Fitzgerald,  indig- 
nantly. ' '  Don't  you  see  from  that  letter  that  he  does  not  think 
he  has  done  me  any  injury  ?  I  told  you  so.  I  told  jon  there 
were  people  who  otherwise  might  be  admirable  enough,  but 
who  simply  wanted  that  sixth  sense  about  money  matters — " 

' '  That  sixth  sense !"  said  Ross,  angrily.  ' '  And  did  not  I  tell 
you  not  to  go  and  confuse  things  by  calling  common  hon- 
esty a  sixth  sense  ?  If  a  scoundrel  in  the  street  picks  my  pock- 
et, I  do  not  think  about  any  sixth  sense ;  I  give  him  into  the 
hands  of  the  nearest  policeman." 

"But  you  Scotchmen  are  too  literal,  and  so  exacting.  You 
won't  believe  in  a  man  having  any  virtues,  unless  he  has  them 
all.  Now  this  man  was  exceedingly  good-natured ;  he  was  very 
fi'iendly  to  me ;  I  am  certain  he  does  not  think  at  this  minute 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  251 

that  he  did  me  any  wrong ;  he  simply  has  no  conscientiousness 
on  that  one  point — " 

"It's  a  want  of  conscientiousness  that  has  lauded  many  a 
poor  wretch  in  jail  who  had  far  greater  excuses  than  that 
idling,  selfish  creature,"  said  John  Ross.  "Man,  I  thought 
he  had  opened  your  een.  I  thought  it  was  the  one  good  turn 
he  had  done  ye.  I  thought  he  had  given  ye  a  lesson.  And 
now,  I  suppose,  ye'll  go  and  sign  this  bill ;  and  you'll  believe 
he'll  pay  it;  and  the  end  will  be — ten  pounds  to  one  is  the  bet 
I  will  put  on  it — I'm  saying  I  will  bet  ten  pounds  to  five  shil- 
lings— that  not  one  farthing  of  that  money  will  come  out  of 
anybody's  pocket  but  your  own,  if  ye  put  your  name  on  the 
back  of  the  paper." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  continued,  still 
more  angrily : 

"  Man,  ye  do  not  deserve  to  have  a  young  lass  waiting  for  ye 
— away  over  there  in  Ireland,  waiting  for  ye— and  you  to  talk 
about  thi'owing  away  your  money  on  a  scoundrel  like  that — " 

' '  But  wait  a  minute,  Ross :  I'm  not  going  to  do  any thiiig  of 
the  kind.  I  would  not  accept  a  bill,  or  back  it — the  fact  is,  I 
don't  know  what  the  proper  phrase  is — for  any  human  being. 
I've  seen  the  results  of  it  over  in  our  district;  the  Coursing 
Club  showed  me  that.  And  indeed,"  added  Fitzgerald,  going 
forward  to  look  at  the  picture,  ' '  I  may  soon  have  need  of  all 
the  money  I  can  get.  There  is  just  a — a  possibility  of  my  set- 
ting up  house,  in  a  small  way,  by-and-by." 

' '  Ay  ?  Well,  that's  better  news.  That's  sensible.  But  don't 
turn  the  mill  too  hard.    You  were  at  work  early  this  morning." 

"At  work  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  stai-ing.  "I  have  not  been  at 
work  at  all.     I  have  not  had  any  breakfast  yet,  by-the-way." 

"Then  what  was  all  that  stamping  up  and  down  for?  I 
thought  ye  were  hammering  out  an  epic  poem." 

"Oh," said  Fitzgerald,  vaguely  remembering  that  he  might 
have  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in  his  eagerness  to  get  per- 
suasive phrases.      "I  was  only  writing  a  letter." 

"It  must  have  been  a  terrible  business,"  said  the  other, 
grimly. 

"So  it  is,"  said  Fitzgerald,  pcrliaps  a  trifle  absently — "to 
convince  one  who  is  at  a  great  distance  from  you,  in  a  letter. 
It  is  difficult— and  disheai'tening  at  times." 


a52  SHANDON   BELLS. 

Ross  glanced  at  him  keenly. 

"Things  are  not  going  quite  right,  then  V  said  he. 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  Fitzgerald,  with  a  forced  cheerfulness. 
"Oh  yes.  Quite  right.  Oh  yes,  I  think  everything  is  going 
quite  right;  and  by-aud-by  I  hope  you  will  have  the  opportuni- 
ty for  presenting  the  Wedgwood  tea-cups  with  a  pretty  speech. 
Of  course  letter-writing  is  a  roundabout  kind  of  way  of  ar- 
ranging anything ;  it  is  difficult  to  explain,  and  to  persuade ; 
and  one  is  so  apt  to  take  wrong  impressions  from  a  letter.  Es- 
pecially a  girl,  you  see,  who  is  nervous  and  anxious,  and  afraid 
to  trust  her  own  judgment  in  taking  a  decided  step.  Any 
one  can  understand  that.  Then — then — then  it  is  very  hard 
and  difficult  to  write,  you  see ;  for  if  you  are  too  serious,  she 
may  think  you  are  alarmed,  and  she  may  prefer  the  safety 
of  I'emauiing  as  she  is;  and  again,  if  you  are  too  cheerful  in 
trying  to  raise  her  spirits,  she  may  think  that  the  immediate 
necessity  for  coming  to  a  decision  can  not  possibly  be  near. 
It  is  so  much  better  to  see  the — the  person.  But  this  time, 
Eoss — I  don't  mind  telling  you — I  have  made  a  very  definite 
proposal.  I  should  not  wonder  if  I  were  to  leave  London  this 
very  week — and  come  back  with  a  wife." 

' '  Good  luck  to  ye,  then !  Now  I  can  understand,  there's  no 
fear  o'  your  letting  that  fellow  have  any  more  o'  your  money." 

"Of  course,"  said  Fitzgerald,  handing  him  the  other  letter, 
' '  that  may  have  something  to  do  with  it. '' 

Ross  glanced  over  Miss  Chetwynd's  brief  note. 

"Whatever  the  matter  is,  it  is  imj)ortant,"  said  Fitzgerald. 
"She  has  never  asked  me  to  see  her  like  that  before.  Perhaps 
they  are  tired  of  the  present  arrangement.  Perhaps  they  think 
it  costs  too  much;  or  they  may  want  to  have  some  one  else. 
Well,  well,"  said  he,  more  cheerfully,  "if  it  is  so,  let  it  be  so. 
One  can  live  somehow.  I  am  not  going  to  break  my  heart 
about  that." 

"Are  ye  coming  out  for  a  stroll,  then  ?" 

"Indeed  no.  I  am  going  to  get  some  breakfast;  and  then 
set  to  work  on  another  article  on  the  Irish  Ballads.  It's  won- 
derful with  what  heart  you  work  when  you  know  the  work  is 
going  to  be  paid  for." 

"It's  no  a  common  experience  Avi'  me,"  said  Ross,  dryly. 

Fitzgerald  was  whistling  to  himself  as  he  went  up  the  steps 


SOME  CORRESPONDENCE.  253 

again.  It  was  not  the  possibility  of  his  losing  that  chief 
means  of  livelihood  that  could  daunt  him.  Now  his  mind  was 
full  of  far  other  concerns ;  and  he  was  forcing  hiraself  to  be- 
lieve the  best.  When  was  the  white  day  to  come  ?  At  Lim- 
erick, at  Inchigeelah,  on  the  Blackwater,  on  the  Shannon, 
he  and  she  together  would  think  but  little  of  what  had  happen- 
ed or  might  happen  in  London.  Might  they  not  find  a  four- 
leaved  shamrock  somewhere  in  the  still  summer  woods  ? 

He  worked  away  at  this  essay  on  the  Irish  Ballads  with 
great  apjjarent  cheerfulness.  When  he  stamped  up  and  down, 
as  was  his  wont,  sometimes  he  hummed  the  air  of  one  or  oth- 
er of  the  old  songs  he  was  transcribing.  But  when  he  came 
to  "Kathleen  O'More" — "My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  poor  lit- 
tle Kathleen,  my  Katlileeu  O'More" — he  did  not  get  on  so 
quickly.  Perhaps  there  was  some  chance  association — or  the 
bit  of  likeness  between  the  names;  but  it  seemed  difficult  to 
him  to  copy  these  lines.  And  at  last  the  pen  was  pushed  aside, 
and  his  head  fell  forwai'd  on  his  clasped  hands. 

Why  was  Kitty  at  Killaruey ;  and  why  was  she  so  cold,  and 
speaking  in  a  voice  that  seemed  far  away  and  strange,  and  not 
close,  and  tender,  and  familiar  as  in  the  old  and  happy  time  ? 
She  could  not  have  forgotten  Inisheen ! 


254  SHANDON   BKLLb. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

IMAGININGS. 

It  was  without  concern  or  apprehension  of  any  kind  that  he 
went  up  on  this  evening  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens.  He  cared 
not  what  might  happen  in  that  direction.  He  was  scarcely 
thinking  of  it. 

As  usual  on  reaching  the  house  he  left  his  hat  and  coat  in 
the  hall,  and  carried  his  bundle  of  books  and  newspapers  up- 
stairs to  the  drawing-room ;  but,  to  his  surprise,  found  no  one 
there.  So  he  deposited  the  literature  on  the  table,  and  went 
and  stood  before  the  fire — an  institution  retained  in  this  house, 
for  the  mere  sake  of  cheerfulness,  long  after  the  early  summer 
warmth  had  set  in — and  stared  into  the  shifting  and  flickering 
lights  as  if  he  could  find  something  behind  them.  There  was 
an  absolute  silence  in  the  room. 

Then  a  slight  noise  startled  him  from  his  reverie,  and,  turn- 
ing, he  found  Mary  Chetwynd  approaching  him,  with  a  plea- 
sant smile  on  her  face. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  the  tall  young  lady 
with  the  pretty  head  and  the  clear  eyes. 

''Good-evening,"  said  he,  very  respectfully. 
"Auntie's  compliments,  and  she  is  very  sorry  she  can't  see 
you  this  evening.     She  has  caught  a  bad  cold,  and  the  doctor 
has  ox'dered  her  to  keeir  to  her  room  for  a  couple  of  days. 
Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

As  Miss  Chetwynd  gave  him  this  invitation,  she  herself 
passed  over  to  an  easy-chair  near  the  fire.  What  perfect 
self-possession  she  had!  Everything  she  did  or  said  seemed 
to  come  to  her  so  simply  and  naturally !  When  he  observed 
this  quiet  and  serious  dignity  and  grace  of  manner,  he  could  not 
but  think  of  Kitty's  will-o'-the-wisp  flashes  of  petulance,  and 
affection,  and  coyness;  but  it  was  with  no  conscious  desire  to 
draw  any  comparison.  Kitty  was  to  him  the  one  woman  in 
the  world;  there  was  "  none  like  her,  none." 
"  I  hope  it  is  nothing  serious  ?"  said  he. 


1MAGIXIXG3.  255 

"Oil  dear  no.  Not  in  the  least.  In  fact,  I  am  wicked 
enough  to  look  on  it  as  opportune,  for  now  I  can  speak  to  you 
freely  for  a  few  minutes,  if  you  will  give  me  so  much  of  your 
time;  and  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of 
you,  and  that  I  am  rather  frightened  that  I  may  not  put  my 
petition  before  you  properly." 

She  did  not  look  frightened.  She  spoke  pleasantly;  and 
there  was  a  sort  of  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  spare  you  some  embari^assment, 
Miss  Chetwynd,"  said  he,  "  if  I  guess  what  you  want  to  say — " 

"I  don't  think  you  could  do  that,  exactly,"  was  the  answer. 

"Only  this,"  he  said,  with  indifference:  "if  you  have  any 
friend  you  wish  to  put  into  my  position  here,  I  hope  you  won't 
think  twice  about  saying  so — " 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  not  it  at  all,"  she  said,  promptly.  "  Who 
could  fill  your  position  ?  Who  could  give  dear  old  auntie 
that  interest  in  every-day  life  that  seemed  to  be  going  away 
from  her  altogether  ?  Indeed,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  you — we  all  are.  You  have  made  my  aunt  quite  chatty 
and  talkative  again;  and  what  she  talks  most  about  is  yourself, 
and  your  writings,  and  your  friend  the  Scotch  artist.  Oh, 
that  would  never  do." 

At  another  time  Fitzgerald  would  have  been  glad  enough  to 
hear  this  frank  and  kindly  speech ;  for  he  had  not  guessed  that 
this  was  the  light  in  which  she  regarded  the  situation.  But 
on  this  evening,  somehow,  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere;  he  was 
indifferent  as  to  what  might  happen  to  him  with  regard  to 
this  post  of  his ;  there  was  a  weight  on  his  heart — he  knew  not 
why. 

"You  have  often  heard  auntie  speak  of  Boat  of  Garry  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  sudden  awakening  of  interest. 
For  now  she  was  three  hundred  miles  and  more  nearer  his 
thoughts. 

"That  is  what  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about,  then;  and  I 
shall  have  to  make  some  ex[)lanations  before  I  put  my  request 
before  you.  No  doubt  you  know  that  auntie,  who  is  generos- 
ity itself,  made  a  present  of  the  whole  place,  just  as  it  stood, 
horses  and  carriages  and  so  forth — everything,  indeed — to  my 
poor  brother." 

"Oh  yes,  I   know  that,"  said  Fitzgerald,  who  had  heard  a 


256  SHANDON  BELLS. 

good  deal  about  this  place  on  Bantry  Bay  from  one  source  or 
another,  and  had  even  imbibed  the  pi-eposterous  notion  that 
Miss  Chetwynd  had  wanted  to  turn  him  into  a  bailifP,  or  stew- 
ard, or  something  of  the  kind. 

"  Fortunately  my  poor  brother  was  pretty  well  off,"  she  con- 
tinued, "and  so  he  could  keep  up  the  place;  though  hunting 
was  his  favorite  amusement,  and  he  always  spent  the  winter 
in  England.  But  the  summer  and  autumn  he  usually  spent  at 
Boat  of  Garry;  and  sometimes  auntie  and  I  went  over  and 
staid  for  a  while.  Tliose  were  very  happy  days  for  the  dear 
old  lady ;  for  she  quite  worshipped  her  boy,  as  she  called  him, 
and  she  was  so  proud  to  see  him  go  about  over  his  own  place. 
Her  kindness  to  him  was  beyond  anything  you  can  imagine. 
I  don't-  know  whether  she  has  ever  told  you,  but  she  is  dread- 
fully afraid  of  the  sea — " 

"  I  guessed  as  much  from  one  or  two  things  she  has  said," 
Fitzgerald  answered. 

"  I  think  she  was  nearly  di'owned  when  a  girl,  or  something 
like  that.  However,  she  detests  being  on  the  water.  And  yet 
she  went  and  bought  a  small  steam-launch  for  Frank — for  the 
place  is  rather  out  of  the  way ;  and  she  used  to  control  her  nerves 
and  go  on  board  that  detestable  boat — yes,  and  drag  me  too — 
and  pretend  to  be  quite  delighted  when  we  went  roaring  and 
puffing  through  the  beautiful  quiet  scenery  up  by  Glengariflf, 
or  darted  about  Bearhaven,  threatening  collisions  on  every 
hand.  Wliat  I  thought  of  these  excursions  I  need  not  tell 
you—" 

''I  don't  know  much  about  steam-launches,  but  I  should 
think  ladies  would  not  cai*e  much  for  them." 

That  was  what  he  said;  what  he  was  thinking  of  was  Glen- 
gariff.  Had  Kitty  and  Miss  Patience  passed  that  way  ? 
Wei'e  the  roses  out  in  the  hedge-rows  yet?  Had  they  walked 
along  the  shore  in  the  twilight  ?  Had  she  tried  the  piano  in 
the  drawing-room  later  on  ?  Did  the  people  know  who  she 
was  ?     Had  she  sung  for  them  ?     Why  had  she  not  written  ? 

"  Then  after  the— the  dreadful  accident,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd 
— and  for  a  moment  she  looked  aside  somewhat — "you  have 
heard  about  that  too,  I  suppose,  when  poor  Frank  was  taken 
from  us — I  thought  auntie  would  never  recover.  Her  interest 
in  life  seemed  to  be  completely  gone.     But  what  she  insisted 


IMAGININGS.  257 

on  was  that  Boat  of  Garry  should  be  left  exactly  as  my  poor 
brother  had  left  it.  Nothing  was  to  be  touched.  You  see, 
the  pi'operty  had  reverted  to  her;  and  she  could  not  bear  the 
idea  of  going  there;  and  still  less  the  idea  of  selling  it;  and  so 
she  said  it  should  remain  exactly  as  Frank  left  it.  And  so  it 
has  remained,  from  that  day  to  this." 

She  heaved  a  little  sigh. 

"That  is  the  sad  part  of  the  story.  Perhaps  you  know  most 
of  it.  And  now  I  come  to  the  request  I  have  to  make  of  you, 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  and  it  is  a  very  plain  and  unsentimental  one. 
I  i-eally  think  it  a  pity  that  a  property  like  that  should  be  al- 
lowed to  remain  absolutely  useless;  and  I  am  not  sure  that 
auntie  would  not  think  so  also,  if  some  change  could  be  made  " 
gradually.  I  don't  actually  wish  that  she  should  sell  the  place, 
for  it  has  been  a  long  time  in  the  possession  of  her  side  of  the 
family ;  besides,  it  has  associations  for  both  of  us.  It  is  a  long 
time  now  since  my  poor  brother  was  killed ;  and — and,  if  I  may 
hint  as  much  again — since  my  aunt  made  your  acquaintance  she 
has  been  much  more  like  her  former  self,  and  less  given  to  that 
moping  she  gave  way  to  for  a  time.  Now  don't  you  yourself 
think  it  a  pity  that  a  place  like  that  over  at  Bantry  should 
be  allowed  to  exist  without  being  of  use  to  a  single  soul  ?" 

"It  does  seem  so,"  said  Fitzgei'ald,  "But  does  no  one 
occupy  it  ?" 

"No;  that  is  the  absurdity  of  it — well,  why  should  I  call  it 
an  absurdity  when  it  was  only  a  testimony  to  the  poor  old 
lady's  grief  ?  No  one  occupies  it.  We  have  to  pay — at  least 
my  aunt  pays — for  keeping  up  the  whole  establishment ;  and 
all  that  we  get  from  it  is  a  hamper  of  game  now  and  again  in 
the  autumn,  or  a  salmon.  There  the  whole  place  is — horses, 
a  coachman,  a  gamekeeper,  a  yachtsman,  and  two  women- 
servants;  and  I  suppose  the  only  person  who  makes  any  use 
of  the  place  is  Mr.  McGee,  the  solicitor  in  Bantry,  for  when  he 
goes  round  to  pay  the  wages,  and  that,  I  suppose  he  has  some 
shooting,  or  a  sail  in  the  steam-launch.  I  proposed  some  time 
ago  to  my  aunt  that  she  should  at  least  bring  the  horses  and 
carriages  to  London;  but  when  poor  old  auntie  .said  nothing 
at  all,  but  only  turned  away  to  hide  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  what 
further  could  I  urge  ?  You  see,  they  were  his  horses.  He  was 
proud  of  them.     So  with  the  steam-launch.     She  would  not 


258  SHANDON  BELLS. 

hear  of  its  being  sold.  lu  fact,  for  a  long  time  any  reference  to 
the  place  was  so  distressing  to  her  that  I  did  not  even  mention 
it,  except  when  I  had  to  draw  ovit  a  check  for  Mr.  McGee,  and 
then  it  was  simply,  'Auntie  dear,  Mr.  McGee  wants  so  much.' 
You  may  think  all  this  an  absui'd  piece  of  sentiment ;  perhaps  it 
is ;  but  then,  you  see,  I  am  Frank's  sister,  and  I  know  how  kind 
my  aunt  was  to  him ;  and  if  slie  has  still  this  feeling  about  pre- 
serving intact  what  belonged  to  him,  I  don't  find  it  altogether 
ridiculous." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Fitzgerald,  gentl3\  He  thought  she  spoke 
very  prettily  about  this  matter.  He  should  not  have  thought 
she  had  so  much  sympathy. 

"But  now,"  she  said — "now  that  time  has  gone  by,  and 
auntie  seems  a  little  more  cheerful,  I  think  some  effort  should 
be  made  to  get  some  good  out  of  the  place.  I  don't  know  that 
I  am  very  penurious,  but  I  assure  you  I  do  grudge  to  have  to 
draw  out  checks  to  keep  up  a  perfectly  useless  place  like  that. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  I  see  a  good  deal  of  want  and  trouble 
and  misery  that  my  conscience  rebels  against  throwing  away 
money  like  that." 

"  Surely  you  are  quite  right, "said  Fitzgerald,  though  he  did 
not  quite  know  why  he  should  be  appealed  to.  "If  Mrs.  Chet- 
wynd  does  not  wish  to  sell  the  place,  and  if  it  would  be  pain- 
ful for  her  to  go  and  live  in  it,  why  might  she  not  let  it  ?  If 
the  shooting  is  fair,  it  ought  to  let.  The  neighborhood  is  pret- 
ty enough." 

"That  is  what  I  think  too,"  said  Mary  Chetwyud,  with  that 
placid,  intelligent  smile  of  hers.  "But  the  only  person  who 
could  induce  her  to  let  the  place,  and  so  save  all  this  expense, 
is  yourself,  Mr.  Fitzgerald;  and  now  you  know  why  I  have 
ventured  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  great  favor." 

"  I  ?     What  could  I  do  about  it  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"If  I  were  to  go  now  and  ask  auntie  to  let  Boat  of  Garry," 
said  Miss  Chetwynd,  "she  would  think  me  very  cruel  and  hard- 
hearted. The  idea  of  turning  in  a  stranger  to  succeed  to  poor 
Frank's  dog-cart,  and  his  gun-room,  and  the  little  cabin  in  the 
steam -yacht — that  would  be  quite  terrible  to  her.  But  she 
might  get  accustomed  to  the  idea.  She  would  not  mind  your 
going  over  and  occupying  the  place.  She  has  a  gi-eat  regard 
for  you.     You  are  about  Frank's  age;  you  know  about  shoot- 


IMAGININGS.  259 

ing ;  it  would  seem  natural  enough  to  her  that  you  should  go 
over  and  live  at  Boat  of  Garry  for  a  time.  That  once  done,  the 
rest  would  be  easy.  There  would  be  no  ditficultj^  about  per- 
suading her  to  let  it  next  year  to  one  or  other  of  our  friends 
— some  of  the  scientifics,  as  she  calls  them,  are  vei'y  fond  of 
shooting.  I  know  I  am  asking  a  great  deal,"  she  continued, 
quickly,  for  she  saw  that  he  looked  rather  astonished.  "You 
are  making  your  way  in  literature,  and  this  looks  as  if  you 
might  be  taken  away  from  that  for  a  considerable  time.  But 
would  it  be  so  ?  I  can  not  imagine  any  place  better  fitted  for 
literary  work,  unless,  indeed,  you  found  it  really  too  solitary; 
and  then  you  could  send  across  to  Ban  try,  and  you  may  be 
sure  that  Mr.  McGee,  who  is  a  sporting  character,  would  be 
only  too  glad  to  join  you.  Then,  again — you  see,  Mr.  Fitzger- 
ald," she  said,  with  a  laugh,  "I  have  to  begin  by  persuading 
you,  and  if  I  fail  with  you,  I  am  done  altogether — you  would 
have  the  kind  of  holiday  that  would  just  suit  you,  according 
to  all  accounts.  You  would  have  fishing,  shooting,  and  boat- 
ing, in  a  sort  of  country  that  you  ai-e  familiar  with.  You 
have  been  very  close  at  work,  I  should  judge,  since  you  came 
to  London.     You  have  scarcely  ever  been  out  of  London." 

"But,"  said  he,  in  rather  a  bewildered  way,  "do  you  mean 
this  ?  Is  it  an  actual  proposal — that  I  should  go  to  Ireland 
now  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  she  said,  pleasantly.  "  It  is  only  a  pro- 
ject of  mine.  My  x^rayer  to  you  is  that  if  auntie  should  sug- 
gest your  going  over  to  Ireland,  and  taking  your  holiday  in 
that  way,  you  won't  refuse.  I  have  put  the  whole  situation 
of  affairs  befoi'e  you ;  and  if  you  cared  to  take  your  lioliday 
that  way,  it  would  be,  as  you  see,  conferring  a  great  obligation 
on  us,  and  on  me  especially,  for  you  would  be  helping  me  to 
carry  out  my  plan."' 

It  was  a  prospect  that  ought  to  have  been  alluring  enough 
to  a  young  man  of  his  habits  and  occupations.  But  he  could 
not  think  of  that  now.  There  was  something  of  far  greater 
import  to  him  and  his  future  occupying  liis  thoughts. 

"  You  mean  this  year  ?"  he  says.      "  Now  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  '  now,' "  she  said.  "Well,  say  *  now,' 
or  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  aunt  coaxed  to  make  the  suggestion. 
The  salmon-fishing  has  begun, has  it  not?" 


260  SHANDON   BELLS. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  he,  rather  breathlessly,  "  but — but  I  may 
be  called  away  to  Ireland  on  injportant  affairs  within  the  very 
next  few  days ;  I  could  not  pledge  myself  with  any  certainty — " 
And  then  a  wild  idea  occurred  to  him — an  idea  that  sent 
the  blood  rushing  to  his  brain.  What  if  the  two  excursions 
could  be  combined  ?  What  if  he  were  to  take  Kitty  to  Boat  of 
Garry  instead  of  to  Inisheen  ?  Here,  indeed,  was  a  project ! 
Poor  Kitty,  whose  imagination  had  been  bothered  by  vain 
dreams  of  driving  a  carriage  and  pair ! — here  was  the  very  car- 
riage and  pair  provided  for  her,  and  the  quietest  of  country 
residences  for  the  honey-moon,  and  a  yacht  at  her  disposal,  and 
servants  and  all  awaiting  her !  Could  anything  be  more  oppor- 
tune ?  Was  there  ever  such  a  coincidence  in  human  history  ? 
Of  course  he  knew  that  great  people  frequently  lent  their  coun- 
try-seat to  a  bridegroom  and  bride  as  a  safe  and  j)leasant  re- 
treat during  the  honey-moon;  but  that  he  and  Kitty  should  be 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  provided  with  this  paradise  down 
by  the  sea — that,  surely,  was  a  thing  that  never  could  have  en- 
tered her  brain,  even  when  she  was  dreaming  of  the  bliss  of 
having  a  carriage  and  pair,  and  being  rich,  and  driving  through 
jjretty  scenery.  Moreover,  would  it  not  be  a  great  inducement 
for  her  to  fix  a  definite  time  ?  Could  she  withstand  the  pictures 
he  would  draw  of  this  happy  and  secret  retirement  there  ? 

"  But,"  said  he,  quickly,  "did  you  mean  that  it  was  necessary 
that  I  should  go  to  Boat  of  Garry  alone  ?" 

"Alone?  Not  at  all,"  said  she.  "  I  spoke  of  your  being 
there  alone  in  case  you  might  want  to  continue  your  literaiy 
work.  Of  course  I  don't  think  I  could  induce  auntie  to  let 
you  take  with  you,  although  you  are  a  great  favorite  of  hers, 
a  big  party  of  strangers — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  at  all,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily. 
His  brain  was  painting  pictures  with  such  vivid  colors  as  John 
Eoss  never  squeezed  out  of  any  tin  tube. 

"It  would  be  a  great  favor  to  me,"  continued  Miss  Chet- 
wynd,  seeing  that  he  was  now  considering  her  scheme,  "and 
it  would  be  a  pleasant  holiday  for  you,  and  it  would  be  doing 
a  service  to  poor  old  auntie.  She  would  see  that  very  soon. 
The  present  state  of  affairs  could  not  i^ossibly  continue ;  and  I 
am  sure,  once  the  gradual  change  was  made,  she  would  be  the 
first  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  right.     To  tell  you  the  truth, 


IMAGININGS.  261 

Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  was  once  a  little  afraid  of  that  fixed  idea  of 
hers.  I  did  not  like  it,  especially  when  she  was  alone,  her  mel- 
ancholy seemed  to  get  so  morbid  and  hopeless.  But  now  that 
she  has  come  back  to  the  old  interest  in  every-day  affairs,  sure- 
ly now  is  the  time  to  get  her  to  give  up  this  too  sensitive  re- 
pugnance of  hers  to  having  Boat  of  Garry  touched  in  any  way ; 
and  I  don't  see  any  one  else  who  can  do  it  so  easily  as  you. 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  occurred  to  you, "  she  contin- 
ued— and  for  the  first  time  she  showed  a  little  embarrassment 
— "but  I  think  my  aunt  wishes  to  put  you,  as  far  as  is  now 
possible,  in  Frank's  place — I  mean  in  her  little  woi'ld  of  friend- 
ships and  interests ;  and  sometimes  I  am  quite  startled,  when  I 
come  into  the  room  accidentally,  to  hear  her  chatting  to  you  in 
exactly  the  same  tone  she  used  to  use  to  him.  She  thinks  you 
are  exactly  his  height ;  but  you  are  an  inch  and  a  half  taller — 
two  inches,  perhaps.  And  dear  old  auntie  forgets  a  little ;  and 
now  she  thinks  that  poor  Frank  was  just  as  fond  of  books  and 
writing  and  poetry  and  all  that  as  you  are,  whereas  there  was 
nothing  Fi'ank  hated  so  much  as  a  book,  except  British  Rural 
Sports,  and  Colonel  Hawker's  volume,  and  the  Field,  on  Sun- 
day morning.  You  won't  find  much  of  a  library  at  Boat  of 
Garry  if  you  go  there.  Do  you  think  it  is  hard  of  me  to  speak 
of  my  dead  brother  like  that  ?  Sometimes  I  think  I  have  less 
than  my  share  of  natural  afi'ection,  when  I  find  I  can't  quite 
believe  all  that  poor  old  auntie  believes  about  him.  And  yet  I 
was  very  fond  of  him.  The  world  seemed  quite  changed  for 
me  when  he  died;  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  with  whom  I 
ever  could  be  so  intimate,  aiid  who  did  me  so  much  good  in 
talking  plain  common-sense  when  I  was  inclined  to  attempt 
impossible  things.  And  yet  when  I  find  how  common  such 
sorrows  are,  I  sometimes  think  that  I  grieve  too  much,  and 
that  I  should  try  not  to  think  about  him  at  all,  but  to  go  on 
with  my  work,  such  as  it  is,  and  let  every  tiling  be  for  the  best. 
Only  the  world  seemed  to  get  so  empty  when  he  was  taken 
away  from  us.  I  cared  more  for  his  approval  than  for  any- 
body's, although  he  was  not  clever.  I  could  not  bear  his 
laughing  at  me.  I  used  to  go  out  with  him  when  he  went 
shooting,  though  the  cry  of  a  hare  when  it  was  struck  cut  my 
heai't  like  a  knife.  Tlie  smallest  present  he  made  me  was  of 
more  value  than  anj^thing  anybody  else  could  give  me.     He 


262  SHANDON  BELLS. 

used  to  call  me  his  '  little  girl,'  tliough  I  was  quite  as  tall  as  he 
was — perhaps  a  trifle  taller.  And — although  I  am  not  very- 
sentimental —  still,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I 
should  not  like  the  idea — not  just  yet — of  your  taking  a  big 
party  of  strangers  to — to — Frank's  house." 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  said  he,  instantly.  "  I  did  not  dream 
of  such  a  thing." 

She  was  a  little  tremulous  about  the  lips — only  for  a  second. 

"If  any  one  went  with  me,"  said  he,  thinking  it  better  she 
should  know  the  truth,  "  it  would  be  my  wife." 

"But  you  are  not  married,  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ?"  she  exclaimed, 
with  wonder  in  her  ej^es. 

"No—" 

"  But  you  are  going  to  be  ?"'  she  said,  with  a  quick  interest. 

Then  her  eyes  dropped. 

' '  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  really  beg  yoiu'  pardon, "  she  said,  as 
she  rose.  "I  have  taken  up  so  much  of  your  time.  You 
ought  to  have  stopped  my  chatter.  Well,  may  I  assume  that 
you  are  my  accomplice  ?" 

"Miss  Chetwynd,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "  I  have  a  suspicion 
that  your  ways  are  very  like  your  aunt's  ways,  and  that  you 
contrive  kindnesses  under  the  guise  of  begging  for  a  favor." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  "my 
motives  are  distinctly  mercenary.  I  don't  want  that  money  to 
be  thrown  away  from  year  to  year  for  nothing ;  and  I  ask  for 
your  help.  At  the  same  time  I  am  not  saying  that  you  might 
not  have  a  pleasant  holiday  there.  Good-night,  and  thank  you 
so  much." 

Even  in  his  eager  haste  to  get  outside  and  consider  all  the 
bearings  of  this  new  proposal  that  he  would  lay  before  Kitty, 
he  could  not  but  carry  away  with  him  a  pleasant  impression 
from  this  little  interview.  Mary  Chetwynd  had  been  so  gen- 
tle, so  kind,  and  serious,  and  true  in  manner,  so  good  an  exam- 
ple (as  he  thought)  of  an  accomplished  and  amiable  and  frank 
young  English  gentlewoman,  that  he  had  a  little  remorse  about 
it  all.  Perhaps  he  had  misunderstood  her  somewhat.  It  did 
not  appear  that  her  heart  had  been  altogether  hardened  by 
scornful  knowledge:  what  if  there  were  no  such  deadly  antag- 
onism, after  all,  between  sentiment  and  science  ?  How  nicely 
she  had  spoken  of  old  Mrs.  Chetwynd  I  what  true  affection 


IMAGININGS.  263 

breathed  in  her  little  simple  sentences  about  her  brother! 
Even  that  bit  of  embarrassment  seemed  so  womanly:  she  had 
instantly  withdrawn  her  questions  for  fear  of  giving  offense. 
And  if  she  were  to  prove  the  means  of  putting  this  great  hap- 
piness within  the  reach  of  Kitty  and  himself,  would  he  not 
seek  some  opportunity  in  the  future  to  show  that  he  was  not 
altogether  insensible  of  her  kindness  ? 

But  the  immediate  thing  was  to  let  Kitty  know.  He  was  so 
anxious  to  put  any  additional  inducement  before  her;  and  cer- 
tainly this  one — as  his  quick  imagination  pictured  it — was  of 
sufficient  value.  But  would  it  appeal  in  like  measure  to  Kitty  ? 
Would  she  be  able  to  see  all  those  fascinating  glimpses  of  their 
life  together  in  the  house  by  the  sea  that  now  crowded  in  on 
his  mind  ?  What  a  pity  it  was  he  had  not  been  able  to  add 
this  temptation  to  his  letter  of  that  morning !  No  matter ;  by 
the  time  she  reached  Limerick  both  letters  would  probably  be 
awaiting  her  at  the  post-office. 

Then  in  his  impatience  he  walked  to  a  telegraph  office,  and 
sent  off  this  message  to  her:  "  If  you  are  remaining  at  Killar- 
ney,  ask  letters  to  be  forwarded  from  Limerick.  Do  not  answer 
first  letter  till  you  get  second.     Telegraph  if  this  reached." 

This  second  letter  was  the  one  that  he  was  now  hurrying 
home  to  write.  And  these  were  bright-colored  pictures  that  he 
saw  before  him  in  the  gray  dusk  of  the  evening,  as  he  went 
rapidly  along  the  London  streets.  He  somewhat  forced  himself 
to  think  of  them.  There  was  something  else  he  would  not 
think  of — that  he  put  away.  This  was  the  immediate  ques- 
tion :  whether  Kitty  also  would  not  be  fascinated  by  these  new 
possibilities  ?  Had  she  already  had  a  passing  glance  at  the 
beauties  of  Glengariff  ? — then  she  would  know  the  sort  of  coun- 
try through  which  she  could  have  her  daily  drives  in  that  cov- 
eted carriage  and  pair.  Would  she  come  part  of  the  way  up 
the  hill  in  the  evening  to  meet  him  on  his  retui-n  from  the 
shooting  ?  Would  she  take  a  book  with  her  and  sit  on  the 
river-bank,  among  tlie  warm  grass  and  the  meadow-sweet,  wliile 
with  a  big  sweep  of  the  rod  he  dro])ped  the  great  salmon-fly 
into  the  deep  and  distant  pool  ?  And  then  he  knew  that  Kitty 
would  jump  up  with  a  shriek  of  delight  when  the  struggle  be- 
gan; and  she  would  watch  witli  wid(!  eyes  the  rushes  and  the 
sharp  and  dangerous  leaps  of  the  big  lisli ;  and  by-and-by,  wlien 


264  SHANDON  BELLS. 

victory  was  becoming  sure,  would  she  stand  by  hi-s  side  with 
the  gatr  ready  to  his  hand  ?  For  one  thing,  Kitty  was  not  the 
best  of  sailors.  But  then  you  could  so  quickly  ruu  back  again 
in  a  steam-launch  if  there  was  anything  like  a  sea  on  outside ; 
and  no  doubt  still  days  w^ould  occur  on  which  she  might,  all 
by  herself,  as  it  were — imagine  Kitty  in  sole  command  of  a 
steamer! — sail  all  the  way  around  by  Dursey  Head  into  Ken- 
mare  River,  while  he  shot  across  the  Slieve  Miskish  heights,  if 
the  Boat  of  Garry  shootings  extended  so  far.  And  then  to 
think  of  his  being  away  up  there  in  the  wilderness  of  rock  and 
heather,  and  far  below  him  the  little  toy  steamer,  and  the  tini- 
est figure  sitting  in  the  stern  reading.  Can  the  dog-whistle 
reach  as  far  ?  Or  the  view  halloo  of  the  keeper  to  the  engine- 
man  ?  Or  is  it  Kitty  herself  who  first  catches  sight  of  them, 
and  starts  up,  and  waves  a  handkei'chief  ?  It  is  almost  a  race 
down  the  hill  at  last ;  and  then  the  little  boat  is  sent  ashore, 
and  they  are  x^ulled  out  to  the  small  steamer,  and  the  birds 
and  the  big  brown  hares  are  all  laid  out  on  deck.  And  then 
away  to  sea  again  in  the  golden  evening,  with  the  long  head- 
lands growing  warmer  in  color  as  the  sun  sinks,  and  the  At- 
lantic murmuring  all  along  the  solitary  coasts.  Would  there 
be  a  piano  at  Boat  of  Garry  ?  Or  would  their  evenings  be  spent 
out-of-doors  mostly,  until  the  stars  began  to  be  visible  over  the 
trees  ?  Kitty  was  fond  of  the  darkness  and  of  silence ;  they 
would  hear  the  curlews  calling  along  the  shore  as  they  went 
home  through  the  meadows. 

It  was  of  Kitty  at  Boat  of  Garry,  not  of  Kitty  at  Killarney, 
that  he  forced  himself  to  think.  Also  he  persuaded  himself  that 
this  way  of  spending  the  honey-moon  would  be  a  very  inex- 
pensive one.  Kitty  must  admit  that.  There  would  be  no  ho- 
tel bills,  no  costs  by  road  or  rail.  Kitty  was  almost  in  the 
neighborhood;  the  travelling  would  be  nothing.  Would  it  be 
asking  too  much  that  the  carriage  should  meet  them  at  Ken- 
mare  to  take  them  up  and  over  the  gaunt  mountain-road  until 
they  descended  into  the  leafy  woods  of  GlengarifF  ?  No  doubt 
the  horses  would  be  the  better  for  some  good  stiff  work  now ; 
it  was  far  from  probable  that  the  coachman  had  taken  them  out 
for  regular  exercise  in  a  place  whei'e  there  was  no  master. 

These  points  and  many  more  were  put  before  Kitty  in  this 
second  letter.     Tt  was   a  very   matter-of-fact    letter.     It    as- 


IMAGININGS.  265 

sumed  that  Kitty  would  be  as  delighted  as  himself  with  this 
opportune  proposal.  Why  should  he  implore  and  beseech  ? 
— would  not  his  faithful  Kitty  rejoice  as  he  rejoiced  to  see 
their  dearest  hopes  within  easy  reach  of  fulfillment  ?  And 
it  behooved  him  to  be  very  business-like  now.  Kitty  need  not 
be  afraid  of  the  cost  of  the  wedding;  the  simpler  the  better. 
And  if  he  disingenuously  omitted  to  mention  all  the  minute 
points  of  the  case — if,  without  being  guilty  of  any  misstate- 
ment whatsoever,  he  still  left  it  possible  for  Kitty  to  imagine 
that  this  proposal  that  they  should  occu]3y  Boat  of  Garry  had 
been  made  by  the  Chetwynds  with  especial  reference  to  her 
marriage  trip — what  harm  was  there  in  Kitty  innocently  be- 
lieving that  these  two  ladies  wished  to  be  kind  to  her  ? 

So  he  went  and  posted  that  letter  too.  All  that  he  could 
do  he  had  done.  Then  he  walked  back  to  the  court-yard, 
found  John  Ross  at  home,  and  the  rest  of  the  evening  was 
spent  in  the  Scotchman's  studio. 

For  Fitzgerald  had  grown  half  afraid  of  sitting  by  himself 
in  the  solitary  room  upstairs.  Sometimes  strange  imaginings 
would  flash  across  his  brain — fears  that  took  his  breath  away 
— that  were  hateful  and  horrible — that  were  as  unworthy  of 
himself  as  they  were  cruel  to  the  true-hearted  and  tender-eyed 
Kitty,  who  was  so  far  away,  with  no  one  to  speak  for  her  in- 
nocence and  honor  and  faith,  if  he  should  dare  to  doubt. 

12 


266  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    REVELATION. 

The  days  passed;  no  message  of  any  kind,  no  letter,  no 
telegram,  came  to  these  poor  lodgings  in  the  Fulham  Road. 
No  work  was  possible  for  him.  He  kept  pacing  up  and  dow^n 
the  room,  listening  for  the  postman,  or  idly  wandering  through 
the  streets  of  Chelsea,  always  certain  that  her  reply  would  be 
awaiting  him  there  on  his  return.  If  he  thought  of  any- 
thing, it  was  of  how  he  and  she  together  would  occupy  the 
mornings  and  days  and  long  summer  evenings  at  Boat  of 
Garry.  His  eyes  were  turned  to  the  south.  He  seemed  to 
keep  his  face  averted  from  Killarney.  Limerick  was  a  blank 
to  him. 

He  tried  to  avoid  John  Ross ;  but  Ross  was  not  to  be  avoid- 
ed. He  came  upstairs,  regarded  Fitzgerald  for  a  second,  look- 
ed suspiciously  round— as  was  his  wont,  indeed,  for  his  eyes 
seemed  to  take  in  everything — and  forthwith  drove  his  neigh- 
bor down  into  the  studio,  where  Fitzgerald  found  that  a  sump- 
tuous supper  (according  to  their  notions  down  that  way)  had 
been  prepared  for  two. 

"I  have  noticed  ye,  my  man,"  said  Ross,  "once  or  twice  of 
late.     Ye  are  at  it  again." 
"At  what?" 
"Starving  yourself." 

' '  Indeed  I  am  not.  Why  should  I  starve  myself  when  I 
have  four  pounds  a  week,  with  chances  of  more  ?" 

Ross  muttered  something  to  himself,  as  he  brought  one  or 
two  further  things  to  the  supper  table.  Then  he  fetched  a 
bottle  of  beer  for  his  companion,  and  they  both  sat  down. 
Fitzgerald  began  to  talk  about  a  railway  accident  that  had 
happened  the  previous  day,  but  Ross  had  other  thoughts  in  his 
mind. 

"Ye  are  not  starving  yourself,  then  ?"  said  he,  glancing  at 
his  neighbor. 


THE   REVELATION.  267 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"Ye  ai"e  not  looking  well,  then.  Ye  keep  too  much  in- 
doors, and  too  much  in  town.  Ye'll  forget  what  the  country 
is  like  if  ye  go  on  like  this ;  and  fine  leeterature  you'll  turn 
out  then ! — leeterature  with  a  white  face  and  bloodless  hands. 
What  the  mischief  do  ye  mean?"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly. 
"No  meat?" 

Fitzgerald  had  pushed  his  plate  away,  and  was  merely  play- 
ing with  a  bit  of  crust. 

"  I  had  something,"  he  said,  evasively. 

"When?" 

"  Oh,  not  very  long  ago." 

"When?"  said  the  other. 

"Well,  about  the  middle  of  the  day." 

"And  so  ye  have  got  yourself  into  the  habit  of  eating  no- 
thing after  two  o'clock  ?" 

He  himself  was  husy  enough.  For  a  time  Fitzgerald  had 
all  the  talking.  What  he  talked  about  was  merely  the  current 
news  of  the  papers. 

"There's  an  article  I  would  like  to  see  ye  write;  ye  might 
do  some  good  wi't,"  said  Ross  at  length. 

"What  do  you  charge  for  supplying  subjects  to  poor 
authors  ?" 

"Oh,  but  it's  no  for  fine  leeterary  treatment,  this.  It's  a 
sledge-hammer  ye  want  to  smash  down  a  piece  of  meeserable 
hypocrisy.  I  want  ye  to  denounce  the  perneecious  sympathy 
that  ye  find  expressed  in  books — and  mostly  in  weemen's  books, 
I  may  say — for  the  genteel  folk  who  are  '  keeping  up  appear- 
ances,' and  for  the  trouble  they  suffer  in  consequence.  Lord 
save  us  !  these  are  the  people  we  are  to  sympathize  wi' — 
people  whose  vanity  makes  tliem  live  at  eight  hundred  pounds 
a  year  when  they  have  only  three  hundred  pounds  ;  and  it's 
a  '  proper  i^ride'  ;  and  they're  doing  the  best  for  tlie  family. 
A  proi)er  pride! — it's  a  pi'oper  pride  that  must  suffer  some 
stings,  I  should  think,  when  the  unpaid  tradesmen  come  ring- 
ing at  the  door.  And  then  the  way  tliey  are  described  as 
peetying  tliemselves,  and  sighing  with  resignation  over  their 
struggles,  just  as  if  God  had  decreed  them  to  have  hired 
broughams,  and  dinner  parties,  and  their  daughters  at  board- 
ing-schools, and  what  not;  and  a.s  if  their  no  being  able  to  set- 


268  SHANDON  BELLS. 

tie  their  bills  was  something  they  could  not  make  out !  No ;  it 
is  their  right  to  live  in  such  a  way ;  it  never  occurs  to  them 
that  if  they  have  three  hundred  pounds  a  year,  they'd  better 
live  on  that,  or  less ;  they  have  to  keep  up  appearances,  and 
you  and  me  are  expected  to  have  a  great  peety  for  all  they  suf- 
fer through  their  pei^neecious  vanity  and  pretense.  If  they 
choose  to  live  beyond  their  income,  let  them  smart  for  it! 
— why  should  I  peety  them  ?  I  peety  the  butchers  and  green- 
grocers that  they  plunder;  or,  worse  still,  that  they  leave  so 
long  unpaid  that  the  poor  man,  for  want  of  ready  money,  is 
forced  to  take  to  overcharging  and  trade  dodges,  and  in  a 
measui'e  becomes  a  thief.  Now  I  am  told,"  said  he,  fixing  his 
keen  eyes  on  Fitzgerald  for  a  second,  "that  you  Irish  are 
rayther  given  to  that  keeping  up  of  ajipearances ;  that  is  to  say, 
living  at  a  rate  ye  can  not  properly  aiford." 

Fitzgerald  suspected  as  much.  These  homilies  of  Ross's 
generally  ended  with  a  personal  application. 

"Some  of  the  small  squireens  are  pretty  much  given  that 
way,"  he  said,  "but  I  suppose  you'll  find  about  an  equal 
amoTint  of  pretentiousness  everywhere  among  the  poor  gen- 
teel. It  isn't  easy  for  them  to  give  up  the  way  of  living  they 
have  been  used  to." 

"  But  it's  the  beginning,  my  lad,"  said  the  other.  "It's  the 
beginning  to  live  beyond  your  means  that's  the  mischief. 
Now  you,  for  example — how  are  you  going  to  begin  ?" 

"  I  told  you.  In  two  small  rooms,  I  hope,  at  perhaps  eight 
or  ten  shillings  a  week.  Then  we  shall  look  about  for  a 
house." 

"What  size?" 

' '  Small.  But  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,  Ross,  and 
there's  no  use  beating  about  the  bush.  You  are  thinking  that 
I  am  starving  myself,  being  too  keen  in  saving  up  money ;  and 
that  this  probably  means  that  I  shall  start  housekeeping  in 
too  expensive  a  way.  I  think  that  is  about  what  you  ai'e 
afraid  of." 

"It  is,"  said  the  other,  promj)tly.  "You  have  just  hit  it.  I 
can  not  understand  the  use  of  such  violent  means.  I  take  it 
that  when  two  young  people  get  married,  they  should  accom- 
modate themselves  reasonably  and  fairly  to  their  income — not 
starving  yourself,  laddie — and  when  circumstances  improve, 


THE  REVELATION,  269 

let  their  expenditure  grow.  But  if  ye  begin  at  the  beginning 
with  a  vain  pretense  of  genteelity,  and  get  into  ti'ouble,  do  ye 
expect  I  am  going  to  peety  ye  ?     Not  one  jot." 

"No;  what  you  woukl  do  would  be  to  lend  us  money," 
said  Fitzgerald,  who  knew  the  ways  of  this  person.  "But 
thei-e's  no  starvation  in  the  case — not  the  least." 

"Then  what  is  the  matter  with  ye?  Where  got  ye  that 
grayness  in  the  face  ?"  said  his  friend,  whose  eyes  missed  no- 
thing. 

"I  have  been  working  hard,"  said  the  other,  evasively,  "  and 
been  anxious  a  little  about  one  or  two  things." 

"I  wish  ye  could  bring  that  young  lass  over  here  and  mar- 
ry her  straight  off,"  said  Ross,  bluntly. 

"That  may  not  be  so  far  away,"  was  Fitzgerald's  answer; 
and  his  friend — though  he  waited  for  a  second,  regarding  him, 
as  if  he  expected  him  to  say  more — accepted  Fitzgerald's  silence, 
and  forbore  to  press  him  with  any  question. 

Next  morning  there  was  again  neither  letter  nor  telegram. 
This  suspense  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  hastily  went 
to  the  telegraph  office,  and  sent  messages  both  to  Killarney 
and  Limerick,  asking  whether  she  had  not  received  his  com- 
munications. More  than  that,  he  telegraphed  to  the  postmas- 
ter at  Limerick,  asking  to  be  informed  whether  letters  addressed 
to  Miss  Romayne  had  been  sent  or  called  for. 

The  day  passed  somehow ;  there  was  no  answer.  And  now 
he  made  sure  she  could  be  neither  at  Killarney  nor  at  Limerick ; 
and  a  thousand  conjectures  filled  his  anxious  mind  as  to  what 
might  have  happened.  He  went  back  over  her  letters.  There 
she  had  used  the  phrase  ' '  make  our  way"  to  Limerick ;  and  it 
occurred  to  him  that  instead  of  coming  back  by  rail  to  Mallow, 
and  so  getting  north,  it  was  just  possible  she  and  Miss  Patience 
might  have  tried  to  get  round  by  Tralee  and  Listowel,  taking 
the  stage-coaches.  And  although  they  were  both  pretty  ex- 
perienced travellers,  wlio  could  tell  what  slight  misadventure 
might  not  have  detained  them  somewhere  in  these  western 
wilds  ?  It  was  the  only  possible  explanation  of  Kitty's  silence. 
And  again  he  convinced  himself  that  there  could  not  have  l)ceu 
any  serious  accident,  or  that  would  have  found  its  way  to  the 
papers.  That  truant  Kitty,  to  go  and  lose  herself  among  tlicse 
Kerry  mountains ! 


270  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Then,  when  he  was  least  expecting  it,  there  came  to  him  a 
letter,  or  brief  note  rather. 

"  KiLLARNEY,  Thursday  Morning. 

"Dear  Willie,— You  drive  me  to  say  that  you  are  very  in- 
considerate in  worrying  me  with  these  constant  letters  and  tele- 
grams. I  meet  with  so  much  consideration  and  kindness  on 
every  hand  that  it  is  all  the  more  surprising  to  find  you  so  ex- 
acting and  impatient.  Tliat  would  not  seem  a  pleasing  pros- 
pect to  any  one.  I  have  not  sent  for  your  letters  to  the  Lim- 
erick Post-office,  because  there  would  not  be  time.  We  leave 
here  to-morrow,  and  do  not  go  to  Limerick,  the  engagement 
being  cancelled.  But  I  dare  say  I  know  what  is  in  them ;  and 
I  am  rather  tilled  of  arguing.  Besides,  you  do  not  seem  to 
think  of  anything  but  your  own  wishes.  How  could  I  turn 
adrift  Miss  Patience,  who  has  no  means  of  livelihood  whatever? 
She  has  been  most  faithful  and  good  and  kind  to  me ;  and  of 
course  I  could  not  send  her  away  without  making  some  provi- 
sion for  her.  I  am  sure  I  wish  to  please  every  one — especially 
those  who  have  been  very  Mnd  to  me ;  but  it  is  sometimes  so 
distracting  to  try  to  please  everybody  that  sometimes  I  don't 
know  what  I  may  not  do.  But  please  be  a  little  forbearing 
with  me ;  you  are  so  impetuous. 

' '  Your  ailectionate  Kitty." 

He  stared  at  the  letter  in  dumb  amazement.  Was  it  really 
Kitty  who  had  written  that  ?  Was  it  the  Kitty  with  whom  he 
had  walked  arm  in  arm  through  the  hawthorn  lanes  on  the 
Sunday  mornings — who  could  find  no  speech  soft  enough,  no 
caressings  endearing  enough,  no  words  of  love  true  and  close 
and  near  enough,  for  him — who  was  now  reproaching  him  with 
his  want  of  consideration,  and  taunting  him  with  the  sugges- 
tion that  others  were  kinder  than  he  ?  Was  it  possible  for  a 
woman's  heart  to  change  so  ?  He  would  not  look  at  the  inter- 
mediate time ;  he  would  not  think  of  the  last  six  or  eight 
months'  letters ;  it  was  the  Kitty  of  Inisheen  that  he  was  think- 
ing of — it  was  the  Kitty  who  had  stretched  her  warm,  trembling 
little  hand  to  him  across  the  stream  down  in  the  darkness,  and 
repeated  the  pledge  that  gave  each  to  the  other,  and  looked 
up  and  kissed  him  when  the  lovers'  vows  were  over.  Was 
this  the  same  Kitty  ? 


THE  REVELATION.  271 

But  slie  could  not  have  changed  so.  He  would  not  believe  it. 
Kitty  had  been  put  out  of  temper  by  something ;  and  at  such 
times  she  wrote  hurriedly,  a  little  incoherently,  sometimes 
heedless  of  her  grammar  even.  What  he  would  do  would  be 
to  take  the  matter  in  his  own  hands.  He  would  go  and  get 
hold  of  Kitty  herself — that  was  the  first  thing.  Once  he  had 
a  grip  of  her  small,  warm  fingers,  he  should  feel  safe.  Poor 
lass,  she  had  become  petulant  through  being  left  so  much  alone. 
He  would  press  back  the  hair  from  her  forehead,  and  smile 
away  the  evil  spirit  fi*om  her  eyes. 

But  it  suddenly  struck  him  that  she  had  not  said  where  she 
was  going.  Was  he  to  lose  all  clew  to  her  whereabouts,  then  ? 
Was  she  to  remain  for  an  indefinite  time  in  this  petulant  mood  ? 
Then  a  strange  sort  of  fear — that  seemed  to  go  through  his 
heart  like  a  red-hot  wire — stabbed  him,  as  it  were;  and  in  a 
blind  and  bewildered  way  he  went  down  the  stairs,  and  went  in 
to  Ross's  studio. 

"Ross,"  said  he — and  Ross  certainly  stared  at  him,  for  his 
manner  was  unusual — "I  wouldn't  show  you  a  love-letter;  but 
this  isn't  much  of  a  love-letter.  I  wish  you  would  look  at  it, 
and  tell  me  what  you  think." 

He  seemed  rather  breathless. 

*'  Have  you  had  any  quarrel  ?"  said  John  Ross,  when  he  had 
read  the  letter  slowlj^  and  carefully. 

"Quarrel  ?     Not  a  shadow  of  a  quarrel,"  he  said,  eagerly. 

"Will  I  tell  ye  what  I  think?"  said  his  friend,  watching  his 
expression  closely. 

"  Why  not  ?     Why  not  ?     That's  what  I  want." 

"I  think  that  young  lass  is  going  to  marry  another  man." 

Fitzgerald  reached  out  his  hand,  and  took  back  the  letter. 

"You  are  quite  wrong,"  he  said,  quietly,  but  with  his  face 
very  gray  and  haggard.  "  You  are  quite  mistaken  about  that. 
You  don't  know  my — my  darling." 

He  went  away  without  another  word ;  and  Ross  knew  bet- 
ter than  to  follow  him. 

His  faithfulness  fought  on  to  the  end.  He  would  not  be- 
lieve it.  It  was  not  in  human  nature.  The  heart  of  a  wo- 
man could  not  be  so  treacherous.  It  was  not  possible  for  the 
Kitty  whom  he  had  clasped  to  his  breast  on  the  shore  there  at 
Inisheen,  when  her  face  was  wet  with  tears  in  the  moonlight 


272  SHANDON  BELLS. 

— it  was  not  possible  for  that  Kitty  to  be  gayly  smiling  a  love 
smile  into  other  eyes.     He  had  heard  her  heart  beat. 
There  came  a  letter: 

"  Dublin,  June  2. 

"Dear  Mr.  Fitzgerald, — In  the  hurry  of  packing,  I  have 
been  commissioned  to  acquaint  you  with  a  piece  of  news, 
which  I  fear  will  cause  you  some  pain,  though  lorobably  but 
little  surprise.  Miss  Romayne  is  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Cobbs  to- 
morrow morning ;  and  I  believe  they  go  to  the  Isle  of  Man  aft- 
erward, where  Mr.  Cobbs  has  some  friends.  For  my  part,  I 
must  say  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it ;  for  although  Miss  Romayne 
has  always  been  kind  to  me,  and  remains  so,  her  successive 
flirtations  have  only  caused  me  embarrassment;  and  I  have 
often  been  suspected  of  influencing  her  to  favor  this  one  or  re- 
ject the  other,  when  in  truth  I  took  no  interest  at  all  in  such 
trivial  matters.  What  I  can  not  help  regretting  is  the  £40 
that  will  have  to  be  paid  to  the  Limerick  people  for  her  cancel- 
ling the  engagement ;  but  Mr.  Cobbs  has  plenty  of  money,  and 
jDrobably  they  regard  that  as  a  small  matter  now.  I  have  some 
things  to  send  back  to  you,  but  can  not  get  a  proper  box  before 
the  morning.     It  shall  be  registered. 

"  Yours  sincerely,  E.  Patience." 

There  was  One  Tvord  added  to  this  letter — in  another  hand- 
wi'iting.     It  was  in  a  corner.     It  was  the  word  ''^Forgive.'''' 

The  drowning  man,  we  have  often  been  told,  sees  all  the 
chief  events  of  his  life  pass  before  him — a  procession  of  clear 
and  startling  pictures— in  time  limited  to  seconds.  This  man 
saw  wild  and  sudden  visions  too,  as  he  bent  forward  his  brow 
on  his  clasped  hands ;  but  these  rapid,  bewildering,  heart-break- 
ing scenes  had  always  for  their  central  figure  a  woman.  All 
the  rest  of  his  life  was  forgotten.  The  beautiful  pictures ! — fill- 
ed with  the  color  and  sunlight  of  young  love  and  hope;  and 
even  in  the  midst  of  them — whether  by  sea  or  shore,  in  rocky 
glen  or  on  the  breezy  hill-side — some  one  laughing  with  parted 
lips,  and  smiling  with  glad  eyes.  But  then  this  other  vision 
that  would  intrude:  it  was  like  the  dreadful  thing  that  Heine 
saw:  "That  was  a  merry  bridal  feast;  joyfully  the  guests 
sat  at  the  table ;  but  when  I  regarded  the  bridal  pair — Ah,  Ood, 
my  darling  tvas  the  bride .'" 


"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,   O  GELIEBTE !"  273 

Was  the  blow  unexpected,  then  ?  No.  For  days  and  weeks 
he  had  been  living  under  the  shadow  of  this  nameless  fear. 
It  had  been  like  a  black  cloud  over  him ;  he  would  not  look  at 
it ;  he  tried  to  escape  from  it ;  he  tried  to  argue  it  out  of  exist- 
ence. He  would  not  confess  to  a  doubt  of  Kitty's  honor  and 
faith.  Had  she  not  kissed  him  by  the  side  of  the  stream 
where  they  had  plighted  their  troth  together  ? 

And  now  he  had  nothing  to  say  about  perjured  lips,  or  wo- 
men's deceit,  or  anythmg  of  the  kind.  The  wound  had  struck 
deeper  than  that.  It  had  struck  at  the  very  foundations  of 
his  faith  in  human  nature.  Rather  vaguely  and  thoughtfully 
— for  these  pictures  of  Inisheen  were  still  before  his  eyes — 
he  got  his  hat  and  stick,  and  went  out  into  the  mild  summer 
air.  The  day  was  fine;  the  people  seemed  busy.  He  only 
knew  that  life  was  over  for  him ;  that  the  world  had  nothing 
left  for  him — except,  it  might  be,  a  few  memories:  he  was  with- 
out interest,  or  care,  or  hope,  though  the  lad  had  scarcely  touch- 
ed his  four-and-twentieth  year. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,  O  GELIEBTE !" 

It  is  mid-day  on  the  first  of  June;  the  skies  ai^e  clear  and 
this  old-fashioned  coach  goes  jolting,  and  rattling,  and  swing- 
ing away  through  the  lonely  country  that  lies  between  Drim- 
oleague  and  Bantry  Bay.  The  warm  summer  air  is  sweeten- 
ed, now  with  the  fragrance  of  the  abundant  honeysuckle,  now 
with  a  whiff  of  peat  smoke  from  one  of  those  poor  stone  hovels 
near  the  way-side.  There  are  plenty  of  beautiful  things  to 
charm  the  eye  of  the  traveller.  There  are  masses  of  blue 
forget-me-nots  in  the  marshy  pools.  The  waste  bog-land  has 
its  own  rich  hues ;  and  these  rude  stone  walls  that  inclose  the 
miserable  bit  of  farm  or  gai'den  are  surmounted  by  golden 
gorse.  Even  tlie  far-reaching  sterile  hills,  whei'e  the  scant 
pasturage  scai^ccly  tints  the  barren  rock,  have  tlieir  qualities  of 
color  that  a  painter  might  observe.  For  the  day  is  beautiful; 
the  air  is  clear,  and  the  sunshine  falls  so  strongly  that  the 
shadows  under  the  hedge-rows  or  under  a  steep  bank  seem 


274  SHANDON   BELLS. 

quite  black — and  not  yet  the  opaque  black  that  a  palette  would 
give — but  a  sensitive,  deep-reaching,  luminous  blackness  that 
reveals  things  within  itself,  and  that  is  cut  across  outside  by 
the  shai'p-pointed  spears  of  the  iris,  a  brilliant  deep  strong 
green  in  the  sunlight. 

The  solitary  passenger  by  this  mail-coach  regai'ds  these 
thmgs  with  a  minute  and  close  and  mechanical  attention ; 
perhaps  he  forces  himself  so  to  regard  them.  He  has  come 
through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  as  it  were;  there 
is  a  black  cloud  behind  him,  and  he  durst  not  look  that  way ; 
he  busies  himself,  and  strives  to  busy  himself,  with  the  phe- 
nomena of  the  visible  woi'ld  around  him.  And  while  he  fond- 
ly imagines  that  he  is  contemplating  these  phenomena  with 
the  calm  and  dispassionate  eye  of  an  artist — looking  at  the 
waste  bog-land  and  the  poor  hovels  and  the  sad  far  hills  with 
a  view  to  guessing  at  their  value  in  color — in  reality  he  is  read- 
ing human  sorrow,  and  the  tragedy  of  human  life,  into  every 
sight  and  sound  that  meets  him. 

But  the  first  glimpse  of  the  broad  waters  of  Bantry  Bay 
made  his  heart  leap  with  pain.  Visions  and  dreams  that  had 
occupied  days  not  so  far  by-gone  seemed  to  dazzle  his  eyes  for 
a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment.  With  a  terrible  efPort  he 
put  them  away.  He  would  not  confess  to  that  quick  sharp 
quiver  at  the  heart.  He  was  studying  this  beautiful  j^icture 
as  John  Ross  might  have  studied  it.  Look  at  the  great  width 
of  the  sea,  with  its  armlets  stretching  in  between  the  sunny 
browns  and  greens  of  the  headlands.  So  still  is  the  summer 
air,  so  calm  and  clear  is  the  summer  sky,  that  the  blue  of 
these  far-reaching  arms  of  water  is  a  dull  aud  almost  opaque 
blue — a  sort  of  sealing-wax  blue — looking  molten  and  heavy 
in  the  spaces  between  the  wooded  islands  and  the  rocks.  The 
hills  on  the  other  side,  that  stretch  away  out  to  the  lonely 
Atlantic,  seem  desolate  and  uninhabited.  It  is  a  sad  picture, 
despite  the  loveliness  of  the  sumxner  day.  But  if  one  wishes 
to  lose  one's  self  —  to  get  away  from  the  world,  to  seek  out 
the  secret  haunts  of  nature,  and  find  solace  and  forgetfulness 
there — surely  these  remote  shores,  these  voiceless  hills  and 
glens,  may  afford  a  resting-place  for  the  tortured  soul. 

He  had  to  encounter  strange  faces  at  GlengarifP.  At  the 
pretty  hotel  there,  which  from  a  distance  seemed  to  be  half 


"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,  O  GELIEBTE !"  275 

smothered  among  trees  and  flowers  and  shrubs,  he  found  a 
number  of  the  visitors  sitting  outside,  some  having  afternoon 
tea  at  small  tables,  others  playing  chess,  or  smoking,  or  chat- 
ting; and  doubtless  they  would  regard  the  new-comer  with 
sufficient  curiosity.  No  matter;  he  was  soon  inside,  and  there 
he  asked  if  he  might  have  a  room  for  the  night. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  presume  ?"  said  the  landlady. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  he,  with  some  astonishment. 

"A  room  has  been  kept  for  you,"  she  said;  and  Fitzgerald 
could  only  ask  himself  why  he  had  been  astonished,  for  in- 
deed the  thoughtfulness  and  kindness  of  those  Chetwynds 
went  beyond  all  bounds. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he,  "I  can  get  the  Castletown  mail-car  in 
the  morning  ?" 

"But  you  won't  need  that,  sir,"  said  the  good  landlady,  "for 
the  carriage  is  coming  from  Boat  of  Garry  for  you  at  half  past 
ten,  if  that  is  convenient.  1  was  to  give  you  the  message  from 
Mr.  McGee.  Mr.  McGee  has  been  down  to  Boat  of  Garry  to 
see  that  everything  is  in  readiness  for  you ;  and  I  was  to  say 
that  he  was  very  sorry  he  could  not  stay  to  meet  you  here,  as 
he  had  important  business  at  Kenmare  to-day." 

"Oh,  indeed." 

"  Visitors'  book,  sir,"  said  a  waiter,  opening  a  large  volume 
that  lay  on  the  hall  table. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Fitzgerald,  and  he  mechanically  took  the  pen 
and  wrote  his  name. 

Then  he  lingered,  glancing  over  the  other  names  on  the 
page,  as  is  the  fashion  of  new  arrivals.  He  had  his  finger  and 
thumb  on  the  leaf,  as  if  he  meant  to  pursue  this  aimless  in- 
quiry, when  all  at  once  he  seemed  to  recall  himself;  he  shut 
the  book  hastily,  and  turned,  as  if  afraid  that  some  one  had 
been  watching  hiin.  Tlien  he  went  to  his  room,  and  remained 
there  until  dinner-time.  He  sat  at  the  open  window,  looking 
at  the  beautiful  foliage,  and  listening  to  the  birds,  and  trying 
to  think  of  nothing  but  these.  He  would  not  confess  to  him- 
self what  sudden  and  frightful  suspicion  it  was  that  had  made 
him  so  hurriedly  shut  the  visitors'  book;  nor  yet  would  he  ask 
what  new  weight  this  was  on  his  heart — this  terrible  conscious- 
ness that  sooner  or  later,  before  he  left  tlie  house,  he  would  be 
irresistibly  drawn  to  search  those  pages. 


276  SHANDON  BELLS. 

At  dinner  he  sat  next  a  vivacious  little  old  gentleman  with 
a  thin  dried  pale  face  and  a  brown  wig,  an  Englishman,  whose 
pleasant  chatting,  if  it  was  not  very  wise  or  profound,  served 
to  beguile  the  time.  He  gave  Fitzgerald  a  vast  amount  of  in- 
formation about  the  neighborhood.     He  had  his  views  also. 

"  Wliat  is  the  highest  form  of  human  happiness  ?"  he  asked, 
abruptly. 

"Killing  a  brace  of  ducks  right  and  left,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"Oh  no.  These  are  violent  enjoyments,  and  violent  enjoy- 
ments are  invariably  accompanied  by  violent  disappointments. 
It  is  the  attainment  of  peace  and  content,  which  is  only  possi- 
ble after  the  wild  passions  and  pursuits  of  youth  are  over. 
And  what  does  it  depend  on?  Sound  sleep  mostly.  I  mean 
to  live  to  ninety." 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  may,"  said  his  neighbor. 

"I  think  I  shall.  I  see  no  reason  to  the  contrary,"  said  the 
cheerful  old  gentleman.  ' '  I  cultivate  happiness  and  health  at 
the  same  time ;  indeed,  I  find  them  to  be  the  same  thing.  The 
only  stimulant  I  allow  myself  in  the  day — the  only  thing  that 
rises  a  little  above  the  level — is  the  dinner  hour.  I  permit 
myself  that,  and  find  no  harm  in  it.  Now  when  I  was  your 
age  I  did  as  most  young  fellows  did  at  that  time ;  that  is  to 
say,  without  being  a  drunkard,  I  drank  too  much.  A  brandy 
and  soda  in  the  morning,  a  i^int  of  claret  at  lunch,  perha^DS  a 
glass  of  Madeira  in  the  afternoon,  then  the  usual  wine  at 
dinner.  What  was  the  result  ?  There  was  no  novelty  in  it. 
There  was  no  pleasant  stimulus.  The  system  was  too  familiar 
with  these  repeated  excitements.  And  so  nowadays  I  drink 
nothing  but  tea  or  soda-water  up  till  dinner-time,  and  then  I 
have  my  pint  of  champagne;  and  my  whole  system  enjoys 
this  unwonted  stimulus,  and  perhaps  I  may  even  grow  talk- 
ative, eh  ?" 

"  But  about  the  sound  sleep — you  have  not  told  me  how  you 
secure  that,"  said  Fitzgerald.  So  long  as  this  old  gentleman 
would  talk,  he  was  glad  to  listen. 

"  I  will  tell  you ;  I  should  like  to  proclaim  it  from  the  house- 
tops," said  the  other,  seriously.  "It  is  by  having  an  occupa- 
tion for  all  idle  hours;  an  occupation  sufficient  to  fix  your 
attention,  so  that  you  can  pass  a  rainy  morning  without  fret- 


"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,  O  GELIEBTE!"  277 

ting;  an  occupation  sufficient  to  distract  your  mind  in  the 
evening — I  mean  the  last  hour  or  so  before  going  to  bed — and 
yet  leave  no  puzzling  questions  behind  to  disturb  you.  Now 
my  occupation  is  to  read  carefully  and  strictly  through  from 
one  end  to  the  other  the  Encyclopcedia  Britannica.  Not  one 
of  the  new  eaitions,  wliich  might  have  modern  speculation  in 
it,  but  the  edition  of  1812,  in  forty  half- volumes.  I  am  quite 
sufficiently  interested  for  the  moment  in  Abergavenny,  in 
Abruzzo,  in  Abyssinia,  or  Aquilaus,  but  yet  not  so  eagerly  as 
to  interfere  with  my  sleep ;  and  when  I  have  got  away  through 
to  the  end  of  the  twenty-fourth  volume,  I  can  begin  again  with 
my  memory  free  from  a  single  fact.  But  this  I  allow  myself, 
I  must  tell  you :  I  allow  myself  the  use  of  a  number  of  small 
hieroglyphics  that  I  put  in  as  I  go  on ;  and  when  I  come  to  one 
of  them  again,  I  say  to  myself,  '  Why,  the  last  time  I  read  this 
I  was  in  Mrs.  Scott's  inn  at  Boscastle,  and  what  a  storm  was 
blowing !'  or  perhaps  another  tells  me  that  when  I  read  this 
paragraph  I  was  at  Ben  Rhydding,  just  come  back  from  a 
stroll  across  the  moors ;  or  perhaps  at  the  Bell  Inn  at  Henley, 
when  all  the  confusion  of  the  boat  races  was  about — " 

"You  seem  to  spend  a  good  part  of  your  life  in  hotels," 
suggested  Fitzgerald. 

"All  of  it — the  whole  of  it,  my  young  friend,"  was  the 
prompt  reply.  "  Why  should  I  have  the  trouble  of  keeping  a 
house  ?  I  have  that  done  for  me  by  those  who  have  had  most 
experience  of  it  of  any  people  in  the  country.  Where  should 
I  have  peace  and  quiet  if  I  were  worrying  about  servants  and 
smoky  chimneys  ?  Why  should  I  bother  about  cooking  ?  If 
I  do  not  like  the  cooking,  or  the  bedrooms,  or  the  direction  of 
the  wind,  I  go  away  elsewhere.  I  could  not  do  that  if  I  were 
tied  to  one  house,  and  hampered  with  my  own  servants.  I 
agi'ee  with  Shenstone.  I  know  where  to  find  a  warm  wel- 
come. I  can  fit  my  habitation  to  the  season  of  the  year.  At 
one  time  I  am  in  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  at  another,  in  the  West 
Highlands.  I  may  say  that  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland 
form  my  house;  and  I  have  a  noble  staff  of  servants — in  num- 
bers, at  all  events — who  please  me  tolerably  well.  And  you — 
at  your  time  of  life  one  does  not  travel  for  pleasure.  May  I 
be  so  impertinent  as  to  ask  what  your  business  or  profession 
may  be  V 


278  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  just  at  the  present  moment," 
said  Fitzgerald,  absently.  "I  have  been  thinking  of  going  to 
America." 

"Ah,"  said  his  neighbor,  regarding  him  with  curiosity. 
"You  know  the  saying,  'America  is  here  or  noii^ere.'  " 

"That  is  from  Wilhelm  Meister,''^  said  Fitzgerald  (it  was  a 
wonder  to  himself  how  glad  he  was  to  talk  to  this  old  gentle- 
man, in  however  mechanical  a  fashion:  the  journey  had  been 
a  lonesome  one).  "And  I  never  could  understand  Wilhelm 
Meister.  But  I  suppose,  as  it  is  an  epigram,  it  must  be  clever. 
What  I  know  is  that  here  the  government  won't  give  you  one 
hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  freehold  land  for  five  shillings  an 
acre." 

' '  You  mean  to  farm,  then  ?  Pardon  me,  but — but  I  should 
not  have  thought  that  would  be  congenial  occupation.  You 
spoke  of  Wilhelm  Meister,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  in  his  pre- 
cise and  courteous  way.  "What  do  you  think  of  Werthei*, 
then  ?  He  was  a  great  favorite  among  the  young  people  when 
I  was  a  youth." 

"I  like  him  still  less,"  was  Fitzgerald's  frank  reply  (though 
his  eyes  sometimes  wandered  away,  as  though  he  were  looking 
at  other  and  distant  things).  "I  don't  like  hot-house  senti- 
ment. I  doii't  think  a  man  could  go  on  loving  a  woman 
whose  eyes  were  quite  cold  and  indifferent  toward  him — con- 
cerned about  bread  and  butter,  in  fact.  If  she  had  once  loved 
him,  even  before  her  marriage,  that  would  have  been  different. 
I  can  understand  a  man  going  on  through  his  life  constant  to 
his  love  for  a  woman  who  has  once  loved  him,  and  whom  he 
has  lost.  I  mean,"  he  added,  hastily,  "by  death.  I  mean  one 
who  has  been  taken  away  from  him  by  death,  and  whose  mem- 
ory is  a  life-long  treasure.  I  don't  jiity  him ;  I  think  he  is 
lucky." 

"What!"  said  the  old  gentleman;  "lucky  to  have  lost  his 
sweetheart  ?" 

"Yes,  before  he  found  her  out,"  said  Fitzgerald,  quite  sim- 
ply, and  even  absently.  "Then  nothing  can  upset  his  idol. 
She  is  always  beautiful  to  him,  and  true ;  he  can  have  no  sus- 
picion of  her;  and  when  she  has  been  always  good  and  true 
and  believable,  he  thinks  other  women  may  be.  That  is  some- 
thing.    That  is,  when   she  dies  in  time — before  she  has  de- 


"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU   DIR,  O  GELIEBTE!"  279 

graded  herself,  before  she  has  shown  him  what  lies  women's 
eyes  can  tell — " 

"I  say,  my  young  friend,  that  is  a  very  extraordinary  theory 
for  one  of  your  age  to  hold,"  said  his  neighbor,  staring  at  him. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Fitzgerald's  forehead;  he  had  been  talk- 
ing almost  to  himself. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  hastOy,  "  thei'e  is  something  in  what  you  say 
about  America.  Of  course  one  would  want  a  certain  amount 
of  capital.  But  the  land  along  the  Platte  Valley  is  excellent; 
and  I  fancy  that  these  pre-emption  grants  are  free  from  taxa- 
tion— " 

"But  have  you  any  practical  experience  in  farming,  may  I 
ask  ?"  said  his  neighbor. 

Now  Fitzgerald  was  so  glad  to  get  away  from  that  other  topic 
on  which  he  had  haplessly  stumbled  that  he  began  and  gave  this 
old  gentleman  a  fair  notion  of  the  state  of  his  affairs — of  his 
struggles  to  obtain  a  place  in  the  London  literary  world,  and  so 
forth.     He  named  no  names  excej)t  the  names  of  newspapers. 

"It  is  to  me  a  very  interesting  story,  for  a  reason  I  will 
tell  you  presently,"  said  his  companion.  "May  I  ask  if  you 
chanced  to  meet  Mr.  Noel  ?" 

Mr.  Noel  was  the  editor  of  a  great  daily  newspaper  in  Lon- 
don, and  his  name  was  pretty  well  known, 

"No,  I  never  did," said  Fitzgerald. 

' '  Perhaps  you  did  not  apply  to  him  ?" 

"No;  I  had  no  means  of  introducing  myself,  even  if  I  had 
thought — " 

"Ah.  Well,  you  see,  it  happens  that  I  am  one  of  the  pro- 
prietors of  the ,  and  I  should  be  delighted  to  give  you  a 

note  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Noel." 

Of  course  Fitzgerald  expressed  his  gratitude  for  this  friendly 
offer,  but  rather  avoided  accepting  it.  He  had  learned  one  or 
two  of  the  lessons  of  life.  His  imagination  was  not  so  san- 
guine now.  The  time  was  over  when  a  chance  conversation 
in  an  Irish  inn  could  suddenly  reveal  to  him  a  roseate  patli  to 
fame  and  fortune.  And,  besides,  what  would  be  the  use  of  an 
introduction  ?  Supposing  he  were  to  be  allowed  to  write  for 
that  great  newspaper,  what  then  ?  For  wliom  ?  Toward  what 
end  ?  Who  was  to  care  ?  He  had  what  money  he  wanted ; 
the  struggle  was  over;  he  had  no  ambition  to  make  his  voice 


280  SHANDON  BELLS. 

lieard  amid  tlie  discordant  roar  of  London,  even  if  it  could 
reach  all  the  way  from  the  solitudes  of  Boat  of  Garry. 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  very  grateful  to  this  old  gentleman  for 
the  distraction  his  conversation  had  afforded  during  dinner, 
for  it  was  with  a  renewed  and  agitated  fear  that  he  passed 
quickly  by  the  small  table  in  the  hall  where  the  visitors'  book 
lay.  For  one  brief  second  he  paused,  half  determined  to  brave 
the  discoveiy,  and  free  his  mind  from  this  lurking  and  intol- 
erable dread ;  and  then  again  he  turned,  mastering  his  vacilla- 
tion, and  resolved  to  give  way  to  no  such  weakness.  Of  what 
concern  was  it  to  him  ?  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead.  He 
had  put  that  black  cloud  behind  him.  His  business  was  the 
present.  And  here,  on  this  lovely  summer  evening,  amid  the 
quiet  beauties  of  GlengarifP,  was  there  not  enough  to  occupy 
his  attention  ?  He  would  do  as  these  others  were  doing ;  only 
he  rather  wanted  to  get  away  from  them,  and  be  alone. 

He  got  a  boat,  told  the  boatman  he  might  go  where  he 
pleased,  and  was  glad  to  be  away  from  the  shore,  and  in 
silence.  Was  it  because  the  silence  was  so  intense  that  now 
and  again  some  air  of  an  old  familiar  song  seemed  to  come 
floating  across  the  abyss  of  time,  speaking  of  other  nights  and 
other  scenes  that  his  heart  remembered  ?  This  was  not  In- 
isheen ;  this  was  Glengariff .  Look  at  the  beautiful  still  bay, 
at  the  wooded  islands,  at  the  solemn  hills.  Far  up  in  the 
northwestern  heavens  there  is  still  a  yellow  glow  of  twilight ; 
here  along  the  shore  everything  is  pale  and  cold  and  clear. 
In  under  the  islands  the  water  is  of  a  glassy  blackness ;  but  the 
ripples  catch  the  glow  from  the  sky,  and  the  black  is  barred 
with  a  fault  gold.  A  heavy  splash  out  there  tells  that  a 
salmon  has  leaped;  the  young  herons  high  up  in  the  trees 
croak  as  they  are  being  given  their  evening  meal;  in  by  the 
rocks,  under  the  bushes,  the  gray  wet  back  of  an  otter  comes 
up  again  and  again  silently  to  the  surface  until  he  finally  dis- 
appears. Then  they  turn  seaward  (a  white  ghost  of  a  hei'on 
rises  from  a  creek,  and  shows  itself  for  a  second  or  two  cross- 
ing the  shadows),  and  make  away  down  by  a  Mai'tello  tower; 
the  night  deepening  in  silence;  a  faint  gray  mist  gathering 
along  the  lower  hills ;  the  twilight  still  strong  enough  to  show, 
far  away,  the  large  mainsail  of  a  yacht  lying  at  her  moorings 
— a  xihantom  thing  on  the  dark  expanse  of  sea.    And  then  slow- 


;"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,  O  GELIEBTE !"  281 

ly  home  again,  over  the  clear  shallows;  and  as  one  nears  the 
landing-place  a  slight  stirring  of  wind  brings  a  scent  of  roses 
— from  the  hedge  there.  It  is  a  gracious  evening.  The  stars 
come  out  one  by  one ;  the  silver  sickle  of  the  moon  has  arisen 
in  the  south ;  there  is  just  enough  of  ripple  along  the  shores  to 
make  a  soft  and  continuous  murmur.  And  the  roses  make 
sweet  the  night  air. 

But  what  was  this  that  went  through  his  heart  like  fire  ? 
He  was  standing  by  the  rose  hedge,  alone — for  nearly  all  the 
people  had  gone  in-doors — dreamily  listening  to  the  low  mur- 
mur of  the  vater.  But  this  other  sound  ?  There  were  two 
people  coming  along  the  road,  and  but  vaguely  seen  in  the 
gathering  darkness,  and  they  were  quietly  singing  together 
one  of  Mendelssohn's  duets.  Did  he  not  know  it  ? — the  pain 
and  the  sweetness  and  the  longing  of  it !  And  then,  somehow, 
a  bewildei'ment  seized  him :  surely  if  he  were  to  hasten  away  at 
this  moment — if  he  were  to  hasten  away  to  Cork,  and  ascend 
the  hill,  and  enter  the  small  house  there,  he  would  find  that 
all  this  black  nightmare  of  the  past  few  weeks  had  been  a 
ghastly  dream.  It  could  not  be  that  Kitty  was  a  traitor;  that 
she  had  gone  away  from  him — Kitty  whose  eyes  had  looked 
into  his,  who  had  pledged  her  life  and  her  love  to  him  in  the 
glen  at  Inisheen,  who  had  trembled  in  his  arms,  and  sobbed, 
and  kissed  him  as  she  bade  him  good-by  at  the  shore.  He 
would  escape  from  this  frightful  thing ;  he  would  go  to  Kitty 
herself.  And  the  next  second  a  sudden  strange  transformation 
takes  place:  he  is  in  a  vision;  Glengarift'  has  disappeared;  he 
is  at  Cork;  this  is  Audley  Place!  Look!  he  opens  the  small 
iron  gate,  and  goes  up  the  pathway,  and  rings  the  bell.  The 
sound  of  the  piano  within  ceases ;  it  is  Kitty's  footstep  that  is 
in  the  lobby.  "Well,  sir,  have  you  come  for  your  singing  les- 
son ?"  "I  have  come  for  a  great  many  lessons,  Kitty. "  They 
go  hand  in  hand  into  the  warm  little  room.  Miss  Patience  is 
absent;  the  piano  is  open.  "Which  one?"  says  Kitty.  "'O 
wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast  ?'  No ;  you  can  manage  that  pret- 
ty well.  Some  day,  when  literature  gives  out,  we  may  have 
to  sing  that  together  in  a  concert-room;  and  then  you'll  see 
whether  anybody  else  can  give  you  a  lead  with  the  accompani- 
ment as  well  as  I  can.  No;  we'll  try  '  O  would  that  my  love 
were  whispered.'     Now  let  my  hair  alone,  and  attend  to  your 


282  SHANDON  BELLS. 

business;  and  please  don't  bawl  as  if  you  were  at  Limerick 
races,  but  sing  as  if  you  were  singing  to  me— at  night— and 
just  us  two  in  the  whole  world — l' 

[Surely,  if  these  two  people — no  doubt  young  people  fond 
enough  of  each  other — who  were  at  this  moment  coming  along 
the  road  to  the  Glengariff  Hotel,  could  have  known  what 
agony  they  were  inflicting  on  one  who  wished  not  to  listen  but 
who  could  not  refuse  to  listen,  surely  they  would  have  ceased 
their  careless  humming  of  the  old  familiar  air.] 

He  is  standing  by  Kitty's  side.  She  strikes  the  first  notes  of 
the  music;  and  he  loses  his  voice  in  hers,  so  anxious  is  he  to 
hear  her : 

"  0  would  that  my  love  were  whispered 
To  thee  in  a  single  sigh ; 
Or  murmuring  in  sweetest  music, 
On  swift  zephyr's  wing  could  fly — 
On  zephyr's  wing — " 

The  music  stops. 

''Dear  me,"  she  says,  "what  are  you  doing?  What  busi- 
ness have  you  with  that  ?  Don't  you  see  that's  mine  ?  I  believe 
you  are  singing  by  ear,  and  not  looking  at  the  words  at  all — " 

"  They  are  not  worth  much  when  you  do  look  at  them,  are 
they,  Kitty  ?"  he  says. 

"That  is  not  my  business,  nor  yours,"  she  answers,  with  the 
asperity  of  a  music-mistress.  ' '  We  have  got  to  sing  the  duet ; 
you  can  criticise  the  poetry  afterward.  Now  you  come  in  at 
the  proper  place — and  leave  my  hair  alone,  will  you  ?  Miss 
Patience  asked  me  if  I  had  combed  it  with  a  furze-bush  the 
other  night.     Now — " 

And  so  they  finish  that  verse,  and  get  through  the  next  very 
fairly.     But  presently,  when  they  come  to 

"And  even  in  the  depths  of  thy  slumber, 
When  night  spreads  her  shadowy  beams," 

Kitty  finds  herself  singing  alone.    She  ceases,  and  turns  round 

and  lifts  up  her  soft  pretty  black  eyes  in  astonishment  and 

affected  anger. 

' '  Well  ?     What  is  it  now  ?     Why  have  you  stopped  ?" 
"It  is  so  much  nicer  to  hear  you  singing  alone,  Kitty;  I 

don't  want  to  spoil  it." 


"  SIE  TRAGEN  ZU   DIR,  O   GELIEBTE!"  283 

' '  Am  I  to  sing  a  duet  by  myself  ?" 

"  I  don't  cai'e  what  it  is,  so  long  as  you  sing  it." 

' '  I  thought  you  might  have  had  enough  of  my  singing  by 
this  time." 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  thinking  that  I  have  had  enough  of 
you  ?" 

"That's  "what  you  will  be  saying  some  day,  at  all  events," 
she  answers,  saucily.  "And  soon  enough.  Oh,  I  know  what 
men  are.  Sighing  their  lives  out  over  a  little  bit  of  your  hair; 
and  then  you  marry  them,  and  before  you  know  -where  you  are 
they  wouldn't  walk  the  length  of  a  draper's  shop  to  buy  a  pair 
of  gloves  for  you." 

'  *  But  you  have  not  been  married  so  very  many  times,  Kitty  ?" 

"Don't  be  absurd.  I  speak  from  observation.  And  I  know 
you'll  be  just  like  the  rest.  But  never  mind;  it's  very  nice  in 
the  mean  time ;  and  you're  looking  such  a  bonny  boy  to-night ; 
and — and,  in  fact,  I'm  going  to  be  very  kind  to  you,  as  I  always 
am,  and  make  you  miserable ;  and  if  his  highness  will  conde- 
scend to  fetch  me  that  book  over  there,  his  humble  attendant 
will  sing  anything  he  chooses — " 

He  j)laces  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  And  do  you  really  think,  Kitty,  that  we  may  grow  indif- 
ferent to  each  other  ?" 

"Don't  tease;  but  bring  the  book." 

"  I  want  you  to  look  at  me  and  say  so.  I  know  what  you 
mean  when  I  see  your  eyes." 

She  keeps  down  her  head. 

"For  I  have  heard  strange  things  since  I  went  to  London; 
but  about  women  only.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  a  woman's 
eyes  are  always  wandering;  that  if  you  look  down  a  table 
d'hote  you  will  soon  find  that  out ;  that  it  is  not  safe  to  leave 
a  woman  by  herself  who  has  a  loving  heart;  that  she  is  likely, 
in  your  absence,  to  become  gently  interested  in  somebody 
else — " 

She  removes  his  hand  from  her  shoulder  with  a  quick  ges- 
ture. 

"It  isn't  true,  Kitty  ?"  he  says,  with  gentleness. 

"I  know  the  man  you  mean — and  I  hate  him !"  she  answers, 
fiercely. 

"It  isn't  true,  tlicn,  that  women  arc  like  that  ?" 


284  SHANDON  BELLS. 

And  then — ah!  the  thought  of  it! — she  leaps  to  her  feet,  and 
seizes  his  arms,  and  there  is  a  j)i*oud  indignation  in  the  white, 
upturned,  quivering  face ;  and  there  is  something  like  tears  in 
the  hlack  soft  eyes,  and  the  pretty  lips  are  tremulous. 

"Read  my  eyes,  read  my  heart  and  my  soul,  and  say  if  you 
can  think  such  a  thing  of  me !" 

And  then —  But  this  dream  of  what  was  by -gone  was  like 
madness  to  the  brain ;  he  could  no  longer  think  of  it ;  and  hap- 
pily these  two  people  had  passed  into  the  house,  and  he  was 
once  more  alone  with  the  silence  of  the  night. 

But  even  here  he  could  find  no  rest;  the  darkness  was  too 
full  of  pictures.  He  passed  into  the  warm  light  of  the  hotel, 
and  in  the  hall  met  the  old  gentleman  who  had  talked  with 
him  at  dinner,  and  who  was  now  chatting  with  the  landlady. 

"  Ah,  here  you  are,  I  see ;  I  have  been  wondering  where  you 
had  got  to.     Here  is  the  letter  to  Mr.  Noel." 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

' '  You  will  find  him  a  most  excellent  fellow ;  and  it  is  not 
often  I  try  his  good-nature  in  this  way." 

"I  think  you  are  doing  too  much  for  a  stranger,"  said  Fitz- 
gerald, frankly.  ' '  I  know  something  of  newspaper  offices.  I 
know  editors  are  not  fond  of  letters  of  introduction.  Sup- 
posing that  I  were  to  begin  and  pester  the  life  out  of  this  poor 
man  ?" 

"Oh,  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  good-na- 
turedly. "Something  in  your  conversation  at  dinner  show- 
ed me  you  had  an  old  head  on  young  shoulders.  You  will 
see,"  he  added,  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  and,  in  fact,  in  a 
somewhat  mysterious  manner,  "that  I  have  written  to  Mr. 
Noel  merely  as  a  friend.  There  are  a  number  of  propi'ietors, 
you  understand,  and  as  our  interests  might  be  cUverse,  we  have 
agreed  never  to  intermeddle  with  the  conduct  of  the  paper, 
except  on  such  large  points  as  the  board  may  be  summoned  to 
consider." 

"I  hope,"  said  Fitzgerald,  pleasantly,  "that  the  declaration 
of  dividends  is  one  of  these  large  points. " 

"Marvellous!"  said  the  other,  putting  a  finger  on  his  com- 
panion's arm  to  emphasize  his  tragic  whisper.  "Marvellous. 
Not  a  word  to  a  human  soul;  but  last  half-year  the  manager 
announced  to  us  a  dividend  of  eighty-five  per  cent,  on  the 


"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,  O  GELIEBTE !"  285 

original  capital !  Think  of  that !  Now  of  coui'se  we  don't 
want  to  intermeddle  with  a  concern  that  is  paying  like  that; 
and  this  note  does  not  recommend  you  as  a  writer  to  Mr.  Noel, 
but  merely  tells  him  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at 
the  table  d'hote  here,  that  you  knew  something  of  literary 
affairs,  and  asking  to  be  allowed  to  introduce  you.  That  is 
all.     You  understand  ?" 

"Oh, perfectly,     I  am  veiy  much  obliged  to  you." 

"Although  I  am  a  pretty  withered  old  stick  myself,"  said 
the  old  gentleman,  facetiously,  "I  believe  in  the  infusion  of 
new  blood;  so  does  our  manager — a  most  shrewd  and  excel- 
lent man.  '  New  blood, '  I  say  to  him :  '  When  you  can  get  it, ' 
says  he.  Now  I  am  off  to  my  final  hour  at  the  Encyclopoedia. 
Where  was  I  ?  Oh  yes,  at '  London' :  the  account  of  the  great 
fire;  very  interesting,  I  assure  you.  But,"  he  added,  with  im- 
pressiveness,  ' '  not  too  interesting.  I  shall  not  sleep  any  the 
less  soundly  to-night  because  I  have  been  reading  about  the 
baker's  shop  in  Pudding  Lane." 

"  Good-night  to  you,  then,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"  But  not  yet,  if  you  are  coming  into  the  drawing-room.  Of 
course  you  are ;  there  are  some  charming  young  ladies  there. 
I  have  my  volume  there,  too ;  their  chatting  or  singing  does  not 
interrupt  me ;  on  the  contrary,  is  it  not  a  pleasant  variety  to 
look  up  fi'om  Ancient  Thebes  or  the  wars  of  Alexander  and  see 
a  nicely  rounded  cheek  and  pretty  eyelids  bent  over  a  book  ? 
I  always  keep  my  volume  there,  though  once  or  twice  the 
wicked  young  creatures  have  hidden  it  out  of  mischief." 

So  he  went  off  and  into  the  warm,  bright  little  drawing-room, 
and  Fitzgerald  was  left  in  the  hall.  He  had  a  reason  for  lin- 
gering, which  he  dared  scarcely  confess  to  himself. 

"You  have  a  good  many  people  here,"  he  said,  cheerfully, 
to  the  landlady,  or  manageress,  "for  this  time  of  the  year." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  It  is  rather  a  favorite  time.  Many  people 
like  to  go  through  and  see  Killarncy  while  the  hawthorn  is 
still  out." 

He  was  turning  over  the  visitors'  book,  his  face  and  manner 
careless,  his  heart  throbbing  with  a  nameless  dread. 

"  Is  Boat  of  Garry  a  pretty  place  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir;  I  believe  so,  sir;  I  have  never  been  there 
myself." 


286  SHANDON  BELLS. 

He  did  not  hear  tliat  answer.     He  had  come  to  three  names, 
two  of  them  bracketed  together,  all  written  in  the  same  hand : 

Miss  Romavne 


E.  L.  Cobbs Liverpool. 


,,.     ^    .  .    Cork. 

Miss  Patience 


He  shut  the  book  quickly,  without  looking  round ;  he  dared 
not  show  the  landlady  his  ghastly  face.  He  took  refuge  in  the 
drawing-room,  concealing  himself  in  a  corner,  with  his  hands 
clinched  on  the  newspaper  he  held  up  before  him :  the  letters 
he  saw  before  him  seemed  to  be  priiited  in  blood.  And  then 
there  was  a  kind  of  suffocation  in  the  air  of  the  place ;  was  not 
the  night  hot  ?  Some  people  were  laughing;  it  was  a  strange 
sound.  A  chord  was  struck  on  the  piano,  and  there  was  silence. 
Two  voices  were  heard — two  girls'  voices — one  soprano,  the  oth- 
er contralto — and  what  must  they  sing  but  ' '  O  wert  thou  in 
the  cauld  blast"  ?  His  clinched  hands  were  trembling ;  the 
agony  was  too  great.  But  he  managed  to  i-ead  on— such  read- 
ing!— such  blind,  wild  fixing  the  eyes  on  words  that  had  no 
meaning — until  the  musical  piece  was  finished;  and  then  he 
slunk  out,  his  face  averted,  from  the  room,  and  found  safety 
and  coolness  and  time  to  think  in  his  small  apartment  upstairs. 

But  even  here,  as  he  sat  down,  strange  fancies  that  he  strove 
to  banish  came  into  his  head.  Why  did  he  look  so  intently  at 
the  window-sill,  at  the  dressing-table,  at  the  mirror  ?  The  mir- 
ror can  reflect  many  faces,  but  no  trace  remains.  This  bed- 
room must  have  been  breathed  in  by  many  a  visitor;  but  here 
was  the  sweet  fresh  air  of  the  night  blowing  in  at  the  open 
window.  What  idle  fancies  were  these !  The  room  was  but 
as  another  room.  He  got  a  book,  held  it  up  against  the  light, 
and  began  to  read. 

He  I'ead  nothing.  The  window  was  still  open,  the  soft  night 
air  blowing  in,  and  yet  the  room  seemed  to  choke  him.  And 
then  all  at  once  he  seemed  to  know  that  Kitty  had  occupied 
this  room.  She  had  kissed  her  lover  out  there  in  the  pas- 
sage; she  had  come  in  here  to  be  alone  with  her  perjured 
heart;  she  had  looked  in  the  mirror  to  see  whether  her  eyes 
had  been  lying  as  bewitchingly  as  was  their  wont.  These 
were  the  eyes  with  which  she  had  sought  him  out  when, 
breathless  and  smiling,  she  had  come  down  to  the  Cork  sta- 


"SIE  TRAGEN  ZU  DIR,  O  GELIEBTE!"  387 

tion  to  see  him  away — glad,  no  doubt,  that  he  was  going,  and 
knowing  that  he  would  trouble  her  no  more.  She  had  taken 
back  her  love,  her  pledged  love,  from  him ;  but  she  could  give 
him  a  basket,  and  salad  cut  with  her  own  hands.  Was  she 
not  kind  ?  Was  she  not  genex'ous  ?  Had  she  not  a  woman's 
thoughtfulness  and  pretty  consideration  and  affectionate  ways  ? 
He  could  see  her  smiling,  and  kissing  her  hand  to  him,  and 
waving  her  handkerchief,  as  the  train  slowly  left  the  station ; 
she  was  thankful,  no  doubt,  she  had  escaped;  she  had  got 
through  the  hypocrisy;  her  eyes  had  met  his,  but  he  had  not 
read  down  deep  enough,  nor  seen  the  treachery  of  her  heart. 

The  air  of  this  room  seemed  contaminated;  he  could  not 
remain  in  it.  Was  it  on  that  window-sill  there  that  she  had 
leaned  her  arms,  on  the  still  morning,  and  looked  out  ?  Oh, 
her  eyes  were  pretty  enough :  any  one  passing  along  the  road 
and  noticing  her  would  say  that  was  a  charming  enough  face. 
Any  kisses  to  sell  this  morning,  fair  young  lady  ? — it  seems 
these  things  are  bought  nowadays.  Is  the  price  high  ?  Must 
one  hail  from  Manchester,  or  Liverpool,  or  some  such  com- 
mercial place,  before  one  can  become  a  purchaser  ?  Hearts, 
too :  do  they  find  quick  buyers,  seeing  they  are  so  easily  trans- 
ferable ?  Bah ! — she  is  no  woman  fit  for  a  man's  love — throw 
her  out  to  the  dogs,  the  smirking  Jezebel ! 

He  puts  down  his  book;  he  has  not  been  reading  much. 

Why  this  contempt,  then  ?  Why  this  scorn  of  poor  Kitty, 
who  (when  she  was  at  Inisheen  at  least)  did  her  best  to  be 
loving?  Poor  little  Kitty!  the  small,  trembling,  overfond 
heart  mistook  its  strength.  No  doubt  she  wished  to  be  stead- 
fast and  true.  Perhaps  she  tried  for  a  time.  But  she  was  a 
creature  of  the  sunshine;  the  warm  little  heart  went  dancing 
and  fluttering  on ;  what  was  it  to  her  that  behind  her  lay  a 
man's  broken  life  ? 

No,  he  could  not  remain  in  this  room :  the  objects  in  it  were 
horrible;  the  air  stifled  him.  He  went  down-stairs  again,  got 
hold  of  somebody,  to  whom  he  made  the  excuse  of  sleepless- 
ness, and  so  had  the  door  opened,  and  went  out  wandering  into 
the  darkness. 

And  now  a  breeze  had  sprung  up  in  the  south,  and  all  the 
night  was  awake.  The  wind  murmured  and  ti'embled  through 
the  dark  branches  of  the  trees:  there  was  a  sound  along  the 


288  SHANDON  BELLS. 

shore;  and  the  sad  mother  earth  was  listening-  to  the  wail  of 
her  daughter  the  sea.  Only  far  away  in  the  stars — those  calm 
and  shining  and  benignant  orbs— did  there  seem  to  be  peace,  if 
only  one  could  reach  them  through  the  gateway  of  the  grave. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ALONE. 


Next  morning  the  little  old  gentleman  with  the  dried-up 
face  and  the  brown  wig  was  standing  in  the  veranda  outside 
the  hotel  when  the  Boat  of  Garry  carriage— a  large  open  lan- 
dau, with  a  pair  of  smart-looking  grays— drove  up  to  the  door, 
and  Fitzgerald  came  out.  Master  Willie,  who  had  been  taught 
by  John  Ross  to  observe  the  expressions  of  the  human  face  as 
closely  as  the  colors  of  palings  and  Chelsea  cabbage  gardens, 
instantly  perceived  that  his  friend  and  patron  of  the  preceding 
evening  was  surprised — more  than  that,  that  he  seemed  to  have 
some  misgiving. 

"This  isn't  newspaper  work  I  am  engaged  on  at  present," 
said  the  younger  man,  promptly,  as  his  luggage  was  being 
handed  up  to  the  coachman  on  the  box.  "I  am  going  as  a 
sort  of  land-agent  or  surveyor,  to  see  whether  a  house  and  a 
shooting  down  here  are  all  right,  before  they  are  offered  to  a 
tenant." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  the  old  gentleman  remarked,  as  he  scanned  the 
turn-out.  "He  won't  find  fault  with  the  carriage,  at  all 
events.  A  landau  is  the  proper  sort  of  carriage  for  this  change- 
able sort  of  climate ;  but  heavy,  eh,  on  the  hilly  roads  ?  They 
seem  a  strong  pair  of  beasts,  though." 

"Good-by,"  said  Fitzgerald,  as  he  shook  hands  with  him. 
"If  ever  I  have  the  courage  to  try  the  newspapers  again,  I 
may  make  use  of  the  note  of  introduction  you  were  kind 
enough  to  give  me." 

"It  will  be  an  easier  experiment  than  going  out  to  Ne- 
braska for  your  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  land,  eh  ? 
Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Then  Fitzgei^ald  got  into  the  landau;  and  when  the  near 
horse  (whose  name  he  afterward  discovered  to  be  Welling- 


ALONE.  289 

ton)  had  reared  and  pranced  on  the  ground  for  a  bit,  off  went 
both  of  them  like  a  bolt  from  a  bow,  apparently  well  accus- 
tomed to  the  weight  of  this  spacious  carriage.  The  morning 
was  flue,  though  there  was  a  strange  luminous  oi)acity  in  the 
air — a  sort  of  thin  sea-fog  suffused  with  sunlight — that  hung 
over  the  woods  and  hills  like  a  tender  bridal  veil.  The  air 
was  soft  to  the  cheeks;  the  warm  wind  was  from  the  south. 
If  this  were  to  be  banishment,  it  was  banishment  to  a  very 
beautiful  and  gracious  part  of  the  world. 

And  indeed,  as  Fitzgerald  lay  back  in  the  soft,  blue-cushion- 
ed cai'riage,  he  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  the  whole  perform- 
ance was  vei'y  much  like  setting  a  beggar  on  horseback.  He 
regarded  the  two  white  buttons  on  the  brown  coat  of  the  coach- 
man, and  wondered  whether  he  could  not  induce  the  human 
being  within  that  garment  to  be  a  little  more  companionable, 
and  less  elaborately  respectful.  So  he  hit  on  the  device  of 
adding  a  trifle  to  his  Irish  accent;  and  he  perceived  that,  by 
slow  degrees,  the  coachman,  who  was  a  good-looking  man  of 
about  thirty,  permitted  a  more  friendly  look  to  come  into  his 
eyes  when  answering  questions.  At  last  Fitzgerald  said  to 
him, 

''What  is  your  name,  now  ?" 

"Murtough  Dunne,  sorr." 

"  But  what  do  they  generally  call  you  ?" 

"  Murtough,  sorr." 

"Very  well,  then,  Murtough,  you  stop  the  horses  for  a 
minute,  and  I'll  get  out  and  come  up  on  the  box,  for  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  about  the  country." 

"  As  ye  plase,  sorr." 

So  Fitzgerald  got  up  on  the  box ;  but  he  knew  better  than  to 
begin  on  the  subject  of  topography.  He  praised  the  look  of 
the  grays.  Wellington,  he  discovered,  was  the  showier  of  the 
two,  and  always  made  a  little  fuss  about  starting;  but  Dan  was 
the  one  for  real  hard  work.  Dan  had  taken  the  dog-cart  six- 
ty miles  in  one  day,  over  bad  country,  and  was  as  fi-esh  as 
paint  after  it.  Dan  was  his  honor's  favorite.  But  indeed — as 
appeared  from  hints  continually  cropping  up  in  this  desultory 
talk  about  horses,  and  carriages,  and  hay,  and  shooting  parties, 
and  what  not — his  lionor,  that  is  to  say,  tlie  late  owner  of  the 
place,  seemed  to  have  had  a  great  many  favorites,  both  among 

13 


29(T  SHANDON  BELLS. 

the  human  beings  and  the  animals  around  liim,  and  to  have 
left  behind  him  a  reputation  for  constant  kindness  and  con- 
sideration. He  was  quick-tempered,  it  appeared,  but  his  wrath 
■was  over  with  a  word,  and  thei'e  was  nothing  the  people  round 
about  would  not  do  to  serve  him  and  to  please  him. 

"  That  made  it  easy  for  the  keeper,  then  ?"  said  Fitzgerald. 
' '  No  trampling  of  nests  in  the  spring,  no  chasing  of  leverets 
by  the  dogs  ?" 

"True  for  you,  sorr,"  said  the  coachman.  "There  was 
John  O'Leary,  up  at  the  Knockgarvan  farm,  and  he  had  a  dog 
— sure,  sorr,  there  never  was  such  a  rascal  for  hunting  and 
worrying  and  shtaling  both  bird  and  baste.  What  does  he 
do  but  bring  down  the  dog,  wid  a  string  round  his  neck, 
and  ties  him  up  in  the  yard,  and  laves  word  for  his  honor 
to  shoot  him  or  drown  him  as  he  plased.  'Bedad,'  says 
Micky—" 

"  But  who  is  Micky  ?" 

"Sure  the  keeper,  sorr.  'Bedad,'  says  he,  'his  honor  will 
do  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  whin  he  comes  home;  and 
wid  your  lave  I'll  get  rid  of  the  baste  mysilf . '  " 

"And  I  suppose  the  gentleman  up   at  Knockgarvan  ex- 
pected a  little  compensation  ?"  Fitzgerald  said,  suspiciously. 
Murtough  grinned,  and  said  nothing. 
"How  much  was  it  ?" 

' '  I  tink  it  was  tree  pounds,  sorr,  his  honor  gave  him,  and 
the  cvir  not  worth  the  sound  of  a  sixpence !" 

In  this  Tvay  Fitzgerald  managed  to  obtain  a  large  amount 
of  information  about  Boat  of  Garry  and  its  neighborhood,  and 
the  long  drive  through  occasional  woods,  or  along  high  and 
stony  hill  roads  (with  always  the  far  Atlantic  in  the  south), 
was  rendei'ed  cheerful  enough.  He  made  it  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness to  obtain  these  particulars.  He  had  undertaken  a  com- 
mission, as  it  were.  And  he  tried  hard  to  devote  his  whole 
time  and  thinking  to  this  duty,  so  that  amongst  inquiries  about 
the  price  of  oats,  and  the  probable  introduction  of  hay-drying 
machines,  and  the  different  kinds  of  nails  for  horseshoes,  and 
so  forth,  other  and  less  immediate  things  might  be  definitely 
shut  out  and  forgotten.  Was  not  this  a  new  and  strange  ex- 
perience for  him — to  be  installed  as  master  of  a  house  that  he 
had  never  seen  ?     How  would  he  get  on  with  the  other  peo- 


ALONE.  291 

pie  about  ?  This  man  seemed  civil  and  honest,  and  was  now 
rather  more  friendly,  while  always  preserving  a  careful  re- 
spect. And  he  could  report  that  he  at  least  had  not  been  neg- 
lectful of  his  duties:  the  horses  seemed  in  excellent  condition; 
the  metal  of  the  harness  was  brilliantly  polished ;  the  carriage 
throughout  was  as  spick  and  span  as  it  could  be — much  more 
so  than  is  at  all  common  with  carriages  in  remote  parts  of  the 
country  where  they  get  rough  and  constant  usage. 

By-and-by,  however,  the  sunlight  seemed  to  withdraw  itself 
from  the  thin  mist ;  it  grew  darker  a  little ;  then  the  moisture 
in  the  air  was  felt  in  points ;  at  last  a  fine  rain  began  to  fall. 

"Will  your  honor  be  for  going  inside  now?"  Murtougli 
asked. 

"Oh  no,"  was  the  answer.  "But  I  will  hold  the  reins 
while  you  close  the  carriage.  I  know  the  south  of  Ireland. 
Besides,  I  have  a  water-proof. " 

And  very  soon  he  had  to  put  on  that  water-proof ;  for  the 
soft  small  rain  now  fell  steadily,  and  the  outlines  of  the  hills 
and  the  reaches  of  the  lake  were  blurred  over  or  altogether 
invisible,  and  the  skies  were  growing  dark.  Murtough  had 
a  water-proof  also,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  think  this  rain  suf- 
ficient to  injure  his  livery.  So  the  pair  of  gray^  trotted  on 
monotonously,  or  splashed  thi-ough  puddles ;  and  the  rain  fell 
more  slightly  or  more  closely  as  the  clouds  came  drifting  over 
from  the  hills;  and  all  the  time  Fitzgerald  was  interesting 
himself  in  particulars  about  the  Boat  of  Garry  household,  or 
asking  the  name  of  this  or  that  feature  in  the  ever-changing 
and  widening  and  dripping  landscape. 

At  length  there  was  a  sharp  dip  down  from  the  high-road, 
and  they  passed  through  an  avenue  of  trees.  Here  the  lan- 
dau dragged  heavily  through  the  mud,  and  there  was  a  pat- 
tering of  big  rain-drops  from  the  branches.  Then  they  swung 
into  the  open  again,  passed  through  an  open  iron  gate,  drove 
briskly  along  a  i^athway  of  wet  gravel,  and  drew  vij)  at  tlie 
door  of  the  house  of  which  Fitzgerald  was  to  be  the  temporary 
master. 

It  was  a  plain,  square,  two-storied  building,  with  an  unpre- 
tentious porch  of  wood  and  glass.  The  shrubbery  around 
and  the  bit  of  lawn  looked  trim  and  well  cared  for;  there  was 
no  sign  of  neglect  about  the  place.     And  when,  leaving  his 


292  SHANDON  BELLS. 

dripping-  water-proof  in  the  porch,  he  Tvalked  into  the  hal], 
and  then  into  the  dining-room  (where  there  was  a  fire,  de- 
spite the  fact  that  the  weather  had  been  unusually  warm,  even 
for  the  first  week  in  June),  everything  around  seemed  neat 
and  clean  and  well  looked  after.  There  was  not  the  slight- 
est air  of  neglect  about  the  place ;  on  the  contrary,  one  would 
have  expected  a  trim  house-mistress  to  make  her  appearance  to 
welcome  the  visitor.  There  were  preparations  for  luncheon 
on  the  table.  There  was  a  pair  of  slippers  on  the  fender. 
Beside  the  easy-chair  at  the  corner  of  the  fire-place  stood  a 
smaller  table,  on  which  some  books  and  old  magazines  were 
methodically  arranged. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  some  one  said  at  the  door. 

The  voice  sent  the  blood  to  his  heart — it  was  so  like  another 
voice  that  he  now  regarded  as  being  beyond  tlie  grave.  He 
turned  quickly.  But  this  person  was  merely  a  quiet-looking, 
rather  pretty  young  woman  of  about  six  or  eight  and  twenty, 
whose  black  hair  and  blue  eyes  made  him  conclude  she  was 
Irish.  But  then  he  recollected.  Was  not  this  the  English 
maid  whose  fellow-servants,  according  to  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  had 
considered  to  have  made  such  a  frightful  mesalliance  in  mar- 
rying the  good-natured  Irish  coachman? 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  she,  in  very  pretty  English. 
"I  was  having  your  things  taken  upstairs.  Would  you  j^lease 
to  have  luncheon  now  ?" 

"Oh yes,"  he  said,  "any  time,     I  am  in  no  hurry." 

"I  hope  you  will  find  everything  to  your  satisfaction, 
sir — " 

' '  Oh.  I  am  sure  of  that.     I  am  not  particular." 

' '  If  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  anything  you  would 
like  difi'erent,  we  could  get  it.  We  have  had  two  letters  from 
Mrs.  Chetwynd,  sir,  and  Mr.  McG-ee  has  been  hei'e  several 
times.     I  hope  you  will  be  comfortable,  sir." 

"Oh,  no  doubt,  no  doubt.  You  are  Mrs. — Mrs.  Dunne,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  My  husband  said  this  morning  he  thought  it 
would  rain ;  and  so  I  had  the  fire  lit,  sir,  in  case  you  might 
have  some  things  damp." 

' '  Oh,  thank  you,  but  I  don't  think  there  will  be  any  need  to 
keep  up  the  fire  in  this  warm  weather." 


ALONE.  293 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  she,  and  withdrew. 

He  went  to  the  window.  It  was  a  pretty  place  despite  the 
wet.  It  was  so  quiet  and  still  that  you  could  not  well  tell 
whether  the  continuous  sh — sh — sh  outside  was  the  falling  of 
rain  or  the  murmur  of  the  brooklet  that  splashed  along  un- 
seen behind  the  bushes  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn.  The  rain, 
too,  had  made  everything  look  even  more  richly  green  than 
it  normally  is  at  this  time  of  the  year,  from  the  luxuriant 
rhododendrons,  whose  glossy  star-like  leaves  were  all  shining 
wet,  to  the  belt  of  trees,  maple  and  chestnut  and  ash,  that  made 
a  circle  round  the  place.  But  through  these  trees  there  were 
spacious  openings,  and  through  some  you  looked  in  one  direc- 
tion over  broad  meadows  and  one  or  two  patches  of  wood, 
while  in  another  direction  a  broad  pale  silver  streak  between 
the  foliage  showed  where  the  shallow  waters  of  a  creek  came 
up  from  Bantry  Bay.  And  always  in  this  loneliness  was  the 
murmur  of  the  rain,  rising  a  little  as  the  wind  stirred  in  the 
branches,  and  then  again  subsiding  into  a  sort  of  semi-silence, 
in  which  one  could  hear  the  sharp  twittering  of  birds  or  the 
lowing  of  kine  at  some  distant  farm. 

Again  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  he  started.  He 
wished  this  woman's  voice  had  not  that  peculiar  tone  in  it.  He 
wished  she  had  the  croak  of  a  raven.  Was  it  not  enough  that 
this  soft  veil  of  rain  was  but  as  a  screen  that  seemed  to  hide 
behind  it  the  fancies  and  visions  and  pictures  of  other  days  ? 
That  is  the  saddest  thing  about  rain ;  it  makes  the  landscape 
look  far  away ;  it  invites  the  imagination ;  the  world  looks 
vague — just  as  the  ghost  of  a  woman's  face  may  look,  if  you 
think  of  it  through  tears. 

"Come  in,"  said  he,  sharply. 

It  was  Mrs.  Dunne;  and  there  was  an  older  woman  visible, 
bringing  some  things  to  a  table  iai  the  hall.  He  turned  to  the 
window  again.     Presently  that  pretty,  startling  voice  said, 

"  Luncheon  is  served,  sir." 

"Thank  you,"  said  he,  thinking  she  would  go. 

She  remained,  however,  standing  behind  the  empty  chair. 
He  went  and  took  his  seat. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  she  said,  "but  will  you  have 
champagne  or  claret  ?  I  have  not  opened  the  bottle  yet.  Mi'. 
Frank  had  sometimes  the  one  and  sometimes  the  other." 


294  SHANDON  BELLS. 

At  this  Fitzgerald  flusbed  like  a  school-boy.     How  could  he 

explain  to  her  that  he  was  not  Mr.  Frank ;  that  he  was  much 

more  of  a  fellow-servant  with  herself  ?     It  was  clear  that  these 

instructions  from  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  from  Mr.  McGee  were 

•  putting  him  into  an  altogether  false  jiosition. 

"  But  I  am  not  at  all  used  to  such  luxury,  Mrs.  Dunne,"  said 
he,  good-naturedly.      ' '  Is  there  any  beer  in  the  house  ?" 

' '  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  I  will  fetch  some.  And  they  call  me  Kate, 
sir," 

When  she  returned  with  the  ale,  and  put  it  on  the  table,  he 
said  (without  looking  up), 

''Thank  you,  Mrs. — Mrs.  Dunne;  that  is,  if  you  don't  mind 
— if  it  is  the  same  to  you — to  have  that  name,  from  a  stranger, 
you  know.  And  I  would  not  trouble  you  to  wait.  I  am  sure 
there  is  everything  here.     If  I  want  anything,  I  will  ring." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  she,  with  the  same  pretty  politeness, 
and  then  she  stirred  the  fire,  and  left  the  room. 

As  he  sat,  moodily  and  dreamily,  at  this  far  too  copious  ban- 
quet, it  seemed  to  him — or  perhaps  it  was  only  a  bit  of  sarcas- 
tic phantasy  that  he  played  with— that  women  were  by  nature 
really  kind  and  thoughtful  and  considerate  so  long  as  you 
had  nothing  to  do  with  their  affections,  when  they  w^ere  as  the 
tigers  that  slay.  Think  of  Mrs.  Chetwynd's  solicitude  about 
his  welfai-e,  her  repeated  injunctions,  the  proofs  being  visible 
on  the  table  here  at  this  ordinary  mid-day  meal.  He,  as  well 
as  any,  and  better  than  most,  knew  with  wliat  trouble  and 
even  difficulty  many  of  these  things  must  have  been  pro- 
cured at  a  remote  country  house  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 
Think  of  the  anxious  kindness  of  this  poor  creature,  who  would 
have  him  consider  himself  quite  as  much  at  home  as  Mr. 
Frank.  Kitty,  even  when  her  heart  had  gone  away  from 
him,  when  her  eyes  were  smiling  only  to  deceive  him  and  get 
rid  of  him,  she  must  needs  rob  herself  of  half  her  night's  rest 
for  the  purposes  of  cooking,  and  come  rushing  and  panting 
to  the  station  with  the  salad  that  her  own  hands  had  dressed. 
That  was  the  mission  of  woman,  then?  There  they  found 
themselves  at  home,  were  natural  and  trustworthy  ?  There 
they  were  truest  to  themselves  ?  It  was  an  odd  theory ;  but 
he  left  the  food  before  him  almost  untouched,  and  went  to  the 
easy-chair  and  lit  a  pipe,  but  soon  dropx^ed  that  on  the  floor 


ALONE.  295 

and  went  fast  asleep,  for  he  had  not  closed  his  eyes  the  whole 
of  the  previous  night. 

He  was  awakened  by  Kitty's  voice  (as  he  thought  in  his 
dreams),  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  his  face  white. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  English  maid-seryant, 
about  to  withch'aw. 

' '  No,  no ;  what  is  it,  Mrs.  Dunne  ?  Do  you  want  to  take 
away  the  things  ?" 

"It  is  only  Micky,  the  keeper,  sir,  who  would  like  to  see 
you,  sir.     But  any  time  will  be  convenient — " 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"In  the  kitchen,  sir." 

"Tell  him  to  come  along  now,  and  we  will  go  and  have  a 
look  at  the  kennel." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Micky,  or  Mick,  as  he  was  generally  called,  ijroved  to  be 
a  smai't-looking,  clean-built  young  fellow  of  about  two-and- 
twenty,  with  reddish-yellow  hair,  ruddy  brown  eyes,  and  a  face 
that  could  express  more  than  his  tongue.  For  he  had  come 
from  one  of  the  westernmost  districts  in  Kerry,  and  his  Eng- 
lish was  somewhat  scant.  Fitzgerald,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  almost  forgotten  what  little  Irish  lie  ever  knew;  so  that 
the  conversation  that  now  ensued  in  the  hall,  about  cartridges, 
and  the  cleaning  of  guns,  and  what  not,  was  conducted  with  a 
good  deal  of  guessing  on  both  sides.  However,  Mick  showed 
himself  shrewd  enough;  he  quite  understood  Fitzgerald's  mo- 
nitions about  the  importance  of  keeping  on  good  terms  witli 
the  farmers  and  sliepherds  around;  and  when,  in  the  little 
gun-room,  they  turned  over  the  various  drawers  and  cases  and 
so  forth — sad  enough  relics  these  were  of  the  dead  man — it 
was  very  clear  that  he  had  done  his  best  to  master  his  trade. 
The  guns  had  b6en  beautifully  cleaned,  and  carefully  oiled 
and  put  away.  Such  cartridges  as  were  there  were  well  made. 
Not  only  that,  but  some  sea-birds  stuck  up  along  the  wall 
were  of  Mick's  own  stuffing ;  and  they  were  very  fairly  done, 
considering  the  difficulty  of  tlic  performance.  Master  Willie 
had  found  a  companion  just  to  lus  mind. 

"The  loiccnse,  sir?"  said  Mick,  as  if  liis  clear  brown  eyes 
conveyed  all  the  rest  of  the  question. 

"Yes,  what?" 


296  SHANDON  BELLS. 

'"Twas  Misther  McGee  was  axing  would  it  be  a  gun  loiceuse 
or  a  kaper's  loicense  he  was  to  be  getting  for  me." 

"  What  had  you  before  ?" 

"Sure  I  had  the  kaper's  loicense;  but  Misther  McGee  was 
saying  mebbe  you'd  be  shooting  all  the  toime  yourself,  sii',  and 
what  would  I  be  after  wanting  the  game  loicense  for?" 

"  What  did  you  use  it  for  before  ?" 

But  this  took  Mick  some  time  to  explain ;  the  fact  being 
that  "his  honor,"  as  every  one  except  the  English  maid-sei-v- 
ant  called  young  Chetwynd,  had  been  away  frequently  during 
the  shooting  season,  and  on  that  account  the  keeper  had  had 
a  license  to  kill  game,  so  that  an  occasional  hamper  could  be 
sent  to  London.  Fitzgerald  said  he  would  have  to  settle  that 
matter  afterward;  and  together  they  set  out  for  the  kennel 
through  the  silent  thin  wet  that  seemed  to  hang  in  the  atmos- 
phere like  a  vapor. 

He  spent  about  an  hour  in  the  kennel  and  stable,  and  then 
returned  to  the  solitary  room,  and  got  a  book,  and  sat  down 
to  read  in  the  melancholy  silence  of  the  rain.  But  he  was 
restless.  The  type  before  him  got  into  a  fashion  of  fading 
away,  and  pictures  formed  themselves  in  its  stead.  This  would 
not  do. 

He  threw  down  the  book,  and  went  out  and  put  on  his 
shooting-boots  and  leggings  and  water-proof.  Then  he  got 
out  the  fishing-rod  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  jointed  it 
together  on  the  lawn.  Then  he  got  his  fly-book,  and  chose 
indiiJerently  the  first  cast  that  came  to  hand,  which  he 
twisted  round  his  hat.  Thus  equipped,  he  set  forth  through 
the  shrubbery,  and  made  his  Avay  to  the  side  of  the  small  but 
rapid  stream  that  came  down  from  the  hills  through  the 
valley  to  the  salt-water  of  the  bay. 

He  had  not  staid  to  ask  what  chances  of  sport  there  were. 
But  the  throwing  of  a  fly  would  be  suflBcient  occupation,  he 
thought;  one  could  not  stay  in-doors  the  Avhole  afternoon; 
besides,  there  would  be  practice — in  case  he  might  happen  on 
some  better  fishing  elsewhere. 

So  he  made  his  way  through  the  rank  tall  grass  and  herb- 
age (the  best  shooting-boots  in  the  world  could  not  keep  out 
the  wet)  until  he  reached  the  side  of  the  stream,  and  there  he 
put  on  the  cast,  and  with  a  short  line  threw  the  flies  on  the 


ALONE.  297 

swirling  water.  It  very  soon  appeared  that  if  lie  only  wanted 
to  exercise  his  skill  he  would  have  amj)le  opportunities,  for 
the  streamlet  was  narrow,  long  weeds  grew  down  to  the  very 
edge,  the  water  was  rapid,  and  in  the  first  three  casts  he  got 
twice  caught  up.  But  when  he  had  chosen  his  position  bet- 
ter, and  was  a  little  more  careful,  he  soon  found  himself  catch- 
ing fish;  that  is  to  say,  small  brown  trout  of  about  four  to 
the  pound.  It  amused  him,  and  did  no  harm  to  them ;  nay, 
perhaps  it  was  a  benefit  to  them,  for  when  they  were  flung 
in  again  they  had  learned  a  lesson  in  life,  and  would  be  more 
cautious  in  the  future.  And  to  him  there  was  a  certain  va- 
riety in  the  occupation  besides  merely  trying  to  dodge  the 
tall  weeds.  To  get  at  some  of  the  pools  and  reaches  of  this 
sharply  curving  river  he  had  to  cross  necks  of  land  that 
were  obviously  covered  at  very  high  tides  with  the  sea- water, 
and  as  these  contained  a  considerable  number  of  deep  peaty- 
looking  holes  partially  concealed  by  the  long  grass,  there  was 
a  possibility  of  his  finding  himself  any  moment  up  to  the 
neck  in  mud.  So  he  kept  on,  on  this  sad,  dull  day,  with  the 
soft  rain  continuously  falling,  discovering  new  pools,  hanging 
up  on  weeds,  landing  small  fish,  and  leisurely  throwing  them 
back  again,  until— 

Yes,  until  there  was  a  sound  that  made  his  heart  jump — the 
shrill  whir-r-r-r  of  the  reel !  Up  went  the  top  of  the  rod,  out 
went  the  butt,  in  a  moment!  Then  he  saw  his  opportunity. 
He  floundered  down  through  the  bushes,  and  got  into  one  of 
the  shallow  reaches  of  the  river,  where  the  water  was  not 
up  to  his  knees;  here  he  could  deal  with  his  enemy  face  to  face. 
The  fish  had  at  fii'st  banged  away  down  stream',  but  was 
now  sulking  under  a  bank ;  so  he  cautiously  waded  and  waded, 
winding  in  his  line  the  while,  and  keeping  as  heavy  a  strain 
on  as  he  dared.  If  this  was  a  grilse  or  sea-trout  making  its 
first  experiment  into  fx*esh-water,  he  knew  very  well  that  it 
was  as  likely  as  not  to  resent  this  treatment,  and  make  a 
bolt  back  for  the  sea.  And  now  thei*e  came  between  him 
and  his  prey  a  bend  of  the  river  where  the  banks  came  close 
together,  and  he  was  afraid  it  was  too  deep  for  him  to  wade. 
The  fearful  uncertainty  of  that  moment!  Look  at  tlie  danger 
of  getting  on  either  bank — scrambling  up  among  tlie  tall  weeds 
— if  the  fish  should  just  choose  that  precious  point  of  time — 

13* 


298  SHAXDON  BKLLS. 

Sudcleiily  there  was  a  slackening-  of  the  line,  and  for  a  wild 
second  he  saw  a  blue  and  white  thing  flashing  in  the  air,  and 
splasluDg  down  again  on  the  water.  He  dipped  his  rod. 
Quickly  and  sharply  raising  it,  he  felt  no  harm  had  been  done. 
But  now  the  line  was  appreciably  slackening  again,  and  as  he 
rapidly  wound  it  in,  he  found  that  the  fish  was  heading  up 
stream,  and  must  be  approaching  him.  This  was  a  serious 
situation.  At  last  the  rod  was  nearly  vertical,  though  he  was 
winding  as  liard  as  he  could  to  get  the  strain  on  again,  and 
he  was  anxiously  looking  at  the  point.  Just  at  the  instant  of 
his  greatest  endeavor  he  joyfully  felt  the  strain  returning — 
nay,  he  had  to  release  his  grip  of  the  handle  of  the  reel;  he 
merely  kept  his  forefinger  on  the  line,  ready  for  any  emer- 
gency— and  then  with  another  great  whir-r-r-r  away  went  the 
fish  again,  round  a  turn  in  the  bank;  and  the  next  thing  he 
knew  was  that  his  rod  was  quite  limp  and  vertical  in  his  hand, 
with  the  line,  minus  the  cast,  flying  high  and  idly  in  the  air. 

So  far  from  disheartening  him,  however,  this  put  a  new 
aspect  on  affairs  altogether;  and  he  thought  that  the  best  thing 
he  could  do  before  I'isking  any  further  and  similar  losses  was 
to  go  straiglit  away  home,  and  sit  down,  and  thoroughly  over- 
haul his  fly-book,  and  see  that  his  casting-lines  were  in  good 
condition.  This,  when  he  had  changed  his  wet  clothes,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  do ;  and  the  table  in  the  dining-room  was  pretty  well 
covered  with  fishing  material  when  the  English  maid-servant 
entered. 

"When  would  you  like  to  have  dinner,  sir?"  said  the  yovmg 
woman. 

"I  do  not  care.  It  appears  to  me  I  have  dined  already, 
Mrs.  Dunne." 

''Mr.  Frank  used  to  dine  at  seven,  sir." 

"Very  well,  seven,  if  you  like.  But  please  don't  take  so 
much  trouble  as  about  luncheon;  I  am  used  to  very  simple 
fare." 

"I  am  sorry  we  can't  get  any  game  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  sir." 

"Well,  I  know  that." 

She  lingered  and  hesitated  for  a  second  or  two. 

"I  wish,  sir— I  beg  your  pardon,  su*— but  would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  speak  to  Micky  ?" 


ALONE.  301 

"What  is  it  now?"  said  he,  looking  up  for  the  fli'st  time — 
for  he  had  been  busy  with  his  flies. 

"The  Fenians,  sir.  Some  of  them  have  been  down  here, 
and  they  are  frightening-  the  poor  boy.  He  does  not  want  to 
join  tliem;  but  they  have  been  threatening  him — yes,  and 
threatening  the  house,  sir — if  he  does  not  join  them." 

"Send  him  to  me,  Mrs.  Dunne.     I  Icnow  the  fellows." 

Presently  Mick  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  dining-room, 
anxious-eyed. 

"Are  there  any  Fenians  about  here,  Micky?"  said  he, 
pulling  at  a  casting-line.  Kate  Dunne  was  listening  the 
while,  though  she  pretended  she  was  getting  out  the  dinner 
things  from  the  sideboard. 

"N— no,  sir." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "I  come  from  the 
Blackwater,  and  we  know  how  to  deal  with  them  there.  If 
any  of  the  idle  blackguards — I  say  if  any  of  the  idle  bligards," 
he  repeated,  looking  up,  and  speaking  with  more  significance, 
"should  come  bothering  about  here,  and  trying  to  get  decent 
young  fellows  into  trouble — getting  them  to  drink  whiskey  and 
march  about  at  night — you  come  and  tell  me.  While  I  am 
here  I  won't  have  any  strangers  come  prowling  about — do  you 
understand  ?     Wasn't  it  you  made  up  the  No.  4  cartridges  ?" 

"Sure  it  was,  your  honor." 

' '  Well,  now,  it's  one  or  two  of  the  No.  4  cartridges  that  I 
keep  in  my  pocket  at  this  time  of  the  year,  just  for  anything 
that  may  turn  up ;  and  I  generally  have  a  gun  handy,  espe- 
cially at  night.  Now  d'ye  see  now,  if  I  catch  any  idle  vaga- 
bond interfering  about  the  place,  and  threatening  anybody, 
or  talking  about  his  marching  and  his  countermarching,  I'm 
not  going  to  wait  to  ask  him  his  business;  it's  the  Queen's 
guinea  to  a  quid  6'  tobacco  he'll  get  a  charge  of  No.  4  shot 
catching  him  up  behind;  and  ye  weighed  the  shot  yoursilf, 
Micky,  and  sure  ye  know  it  '11  make  the  bligards  jump." 

Micky  went  away  deeply  impressed.  That  Irish  way  of 
talking  carried  conviction  with  it.  He  souglit  out  his  friend 
Murtough,  the  coachman,  and  after  a  second  or  two  of 
thoughtful  silence,  he  said : 

"Sure  'tis  the  new  master  can  spake  his  moind.  Blood  and 
ounds!  but  I  hope  thei'e'll  be  no  murther  about  the  house." 


302  SHANDON   BELLS. 

In  the  evening  Fitzgerald  dined  in  solitary  state,  the  pretty 
house -maid,  very  quickly  perceiving  that  he  preferred  to  be 
alone,  leaving  things  about  handy,  so  that  he  could  help  him- 
self. Thereafter  he  smoked  and  read.  Toward  nine  or  so  she 
again  appeared,  bringing  in  the  spirit  tray. 

"Thank  you,"  said  he,  looking  up  in  a  bewildered  kind  of 
way  (for  he  had  been  vaguely  dreaming  as  well  as  reading), 
"  I  don't  want  anything  more." 

"  If  you  would  rather  have  brandy,  sir,"  said  she,  "I  think 
there  is  some." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  never  take  spirits." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  sir.  I  hope  you  will  find  your  I'oom  comfort- 
able, sir.     You  will  find  a  caudle  on  the  hall  table." 

"Thank  you  very  much." 

"  Good-night,  sir." 

"  Goodnight  to  you." 

So  thus  had  passed  the  first  day  in  this  new  neighborhood, 
and  it  had  not  been  uninteresting.  He  was  not  thinking  of 
any  work  now;  he  had  no  thought  of  turning  these  fresh 
experiences  into  literature.  Nor  liad  he  any  reflection  that 
this  place,  so  remote,  and  still,  and  silent,  and  beautiful,  was 
just  the  i)lace  where  Nature,  if  she  were  communed  with  in 
her  mysterious  haunts,  might  reveal  her  subtler  secrets  to  the 
listening  and  sorrowing  soul.  No;  he  had  got  through  a  sort 
of  day's  duty,  and  that  had  kept  him  from  thinking  much, 
which  was  his  chief  good  at  present.  He  was  glad  to  be  able 
to  do  something  in  return  for  the  Chetwynds'  kindness.  No 
doubt  his  being  there  and  occupying  the  place  would  recon- 
cile the  old  lady  to  the  idea  of  letting  it.  He  would  be  able, 
he  hoped,  to  give  a  good  report  of  both  house  and  shooting. 
And  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon,  it  may  be  added,  had 
he  the  slightest  conception  of  the  purpose  Mrs.  Chetwynd  had 
in  view  in  begging  him  to  be  so  kind  as  to  go  and  pay  a  visit  of 
inspection  to  Boat  of  Garry, 


GLIMMERINGS.  303 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

GLIMMERINGS. 

He  was  soon  to  have  an  inkling  of  that,  however.  After 
liaving  been  some  little  time  in  this  still,  silent,  and  beautiful 
place,  occupied  mostly  in  taking  long  and  solitary  walks  by 
sea  and  shore,  he  wrote  as  follows  to  Mary  Chetwynd : 

"  Boat  of  Garry. 
"Dear  Miss  Chetwynd,— In  the  last  letter  I  had  from 
Hyde  Park  Gardens  your  aunt  seemed  to  think  it  quite  enough 
if  I  remained  here  enjoying  myself  in  idleness ;  and  the  temp- 
tation to  do  that  is  sufficiently  strong;  for  it  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  neighborhoods  I  have  ever  .seen,  and  the  people  are 
very  friendly.  I  think  I  ought  to  remind  you,  however,  that 
if  you  wish  to  let  the  house  and  shooting,  it  would  be  easier  to 
do  that  now  than  later  on;  and  really  it  seems  a  pity  to  think 
of  such  a  place  remaining  vacant.  I  am  afraid  a  good  many 
of  the  young  birds  were  killed  by  the  heavy  rains  in  the  ear- 
ly spring,  but  in  some  cases  there  are  second  broods  in  the  nests ; 
and  there  will  be  plenty  of  hares.  Every  one  says  the  winter 
shooting  is  most  excellent,  though  Mr.  Chetwynd  does  not  ap- 
pear even  to  have  spent  a  winter  here.  Everything  about  the 
house,  as  I  wrote  to  your  aunt,  seems  well  managed — the  horses 
in  excellent  condition;  the  dogs  not  so  good,  as  far  as  I  can 
judge  (the  tenant  should  bring  a  brace  of  tlioroughly  train- 
ed setters  with  him) ;  and  the  new  boiler  will  be  in  the  steam- 
yacht  next  week.  As  to  the  prettiness  of  the  place,  of  course 
you  know  about  that  as  well  as  I;  but  if  I  liear  of  any  pho- 
tographer coming  through  by  way  of  Glengariff  to  Killarney,  I 
will  take  the  liberty  of  getting  him  to  come  down  here  and 
take  one  or  two  photographs.  These  would  not  cost  much,  and 
they  would  help  you  in  letting  the  ])lace. 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"William  Fitzgerald." 


304  SHANDON   BELLS. 

This  was  the  answer : 

"  Hyde  Park  Gakdess,  Sunday  Evening. 
' '  Dear  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  —I  am  in  deep  disgrace.  Your  let- 
ter seemed  to  me  so  reasonable  that  I  thought  I  would  venture, 
in  the  most  roundabout  way,  to  make  the  suggestion.  Well, 
auntie,  as  you  know,  is  not  the  kind  of  person  to  get  into  a  tem- 
pest of  indignation;  but  I  could  see  she  was  really  pained  at 
the  notion  of  taking  money  for  poor  Frank's  place,  and  that 
she  regarded  me  as  a  most  unfeeling  and  wicked  creature.  Of 
course  I  did  not  press  the  matter.  I  suppose  I  was  premature. 
But  what  I  really  do  believe  auntie  means  to  do  with  Boat  of 
Garry  is  to  ask  you  to  take  it— probably  with  the  name  of  Chet- 
wynd  as  well.  Pei'haps  I  should  not  mention  this  project  to 
you,  for  I  have  no  authority;  but  auntie  has  been  talking 
about  it  to  Dr.  Bude  (who  is  a  great  friend  of  youi-s,  by-the- 
way) ;  and  if  he  advises  yes,  the  least  you  can  do  will  be  to 
send  him  some  game.  Auntie  appears  to  wish  that  in  the  mean 
time  you  should  wait  over  for  the  shooting,  unless  you  find  the 
place  intolerably  dull ;  and  we  both  hope  you  find  the  house 
and  the  neighboi'hood  to  your  liking,  and  that  if  you  are  writ- 
ing any  more  papers  like  the  '  Woodland  Walk,'  you  won't  for- 
get to  put  something  about  Boat  of  Garry  into  them. 

"  Yours  sincerely,  Mary  Chetwynd. 

"P.S. — After  all,  on  reflection,  it  seems  to  me  that  auntie 
may  be  right.  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  like  to  think  of  poor 
Frank's  place  going  away  into  the  hands  of  perfect  strangers. 
But  as  this  is  a  mere  piece  of  sentiment,  I  am  not  going  to  in- 
terfere in  any  way,  or  give  any  advice.  M.  C." 

When  he  read  this  letter  he  was  seated  on  a  rocky  knoll  high 
up  on  the  hill-side,  whither  it  had  been  brought  him  by  a  boy. 
Far  below  he  could  see  the  small  house  ensconced  among  the 
abundant  foliage ;  the  trim  lawn,  the  belt  of  trees,  the  spacious 
meadow  outside,  and  the  curved  arm  of  the  sea — a  silver  white 
— that  swept  round  as  if  to  inclose  the  whole.  Was  it  not  a 
beautiful  picture,  then,  under  these  skies  of  June — a  desirable 
enough  possession  ?  Here,  indeed,  was  a  vale  of  Avoca,  where 
one  might  pass  the  peaceful  years  away,  quietly  and  equally, 


GLIMMERINGS.  305 

with  the  friends  one  loved  best.  But,  strangely  enough,  ]ie 
looked  on  the  place  with  no  longing  eye.  He  did  not  crave 
for  the  shelter,  the  snugness,  the  in-door  affections,  of  a  house. 
Here,  alone  with  the  sad  hills,  and  the  clouds  floating  in  from 
the  Atlantic,  he  was  more  at  rest.  He  watched  the  great  and 
mysterious  shadows  moving  along,  and  those  hills  growing 
darker  and  grander,  or  disappeai'ing  altogether  behind  the 
folds  of  vapor,  and  slowly  revealing  themselves  again  in  al- 
tered lines;  and  in  the  face  of  this  mighty  phantasmagoria, 
human  life,  with  all  its  fears  and  ills,  seemed  a  petty  and  trivial 
thing.  He  watched  the  great  gray  sea  darkening  or  lighten- 
ing with  the  lowering  or  the  lifting  of  the  heavy  skies.  And 
sometimes,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  there  was  a  sudden  vision  over- 
head, a  break  in  the  pall  of  white,  and  a  glimpse  into  a  far 
and  unknown  realm  of  in  tensest  blue ;  and  then  a  warmth  and 
a  golden  glory  spread  around  him  on  the  herbage  and  the  rocks ; 
and  the  clear  singing  of  a  lark  sprang  into  the  silence,  far  away 
down  there  over  the  water-fall  and  the  glen ;  and  tlie  sea  air 
coming  over  from  the  south  grew  so  balmy  and  soft  that  it 
was  delicious  to  breathe:  one  turned  one's  throat  to  it,  and 
the  touch  of  it  on  the  cheek  was  like  the  touch  of  a  velvet 
glove. 

Look,  now,  at  this  new  companion  of  his.  In  the  perfect 
stillness  of  sea  and  sky  and  land,  and  while  his  eyes  are  far 
away,  some  quick  movement  near  at  hand  tells  him  that  he  is 
not  alone.  A  small  rabbit,  the  very  tiniest  of  baby  rabbits,  a 
ball  of  brown  fur,  has  come  quietly  along,  all  unconscious  of 
his  presence  until  it  is  within  three  yards  of  him.  It  trots  here 
and  there,  with  a  leisurely,  ungainly  tripping,  nibbling  the 
grass  now  and  again,  never  looking  up.  And  then  suddenly 
it  stands  still;  and  the  fat  little  ball  of  fur  has  great  staring 
eyes — staring  with  observation,  not  fright,  for  veiy  likely  it 
has  never  beheld  a  human  being  before.  The  big,  flat,  gray 
eyes  regard  him  unwinking;  tliere  is  no  movement.  Then, 
with  a  little  forward  jerk  of  the  head,  up  go  the  long  eai's;  and 
again  the  motionless  staring.  Then  up  goes  the  baby  rabbit 
itself  on  its  hind-legs,  the  fore-paws  comically  drooping;  and 
again  the  steadfast  stare  at  this  immovable  strange  creature 
seated  on  the  x'ock.  Then  by  .some  accident  he  inadvertently 
stirs  a  hand  or  a  foot — the  eighth  of  an  inch  will  do  it — and  at 


306  SHANDON   BELLS. 

the  very  same  instant  the  earth  is  left  empty ;  there  is  only  a 
glimmer  of  white  disappearing  into  the  brackens  a  dozen  yards 
away. 

By-and-by  he  makes  out  another  living  object,  apparently 
not  much  bigger  than  the  baby  rabbit,  coming  up  the  hill  by 
the  side  of  the  narrow  glen,  and  as  he  makes  no  doubt  that  this 
is  the  same  boy  sent  up  with  another  message,  he  rises,  puts  the 
letter  in  his  pocket,  and  proceeds  to  descend.  Sui-e  enough,  the 
shock-headed  gossoon  has  a  message;  there  is  a  gentleman 
waiting  for  his  honor.  What  gentleruan  ?  He  does  not  know. 
Did  he  come  in  a  dog-cart  with  a  white  horse  ?  That  he  did. 
And  then  Fitzgerald  knows  that  Mr.  McGee,  the  Bantry  solic- 
itor, has  paid  him  another  visit,  and  hastens  down  through 
bi'acken  and  over  stone  walls  until  he  reaches  the  road  sweep- 
ing round  to  the  house. 

This  Mr.  McGee  was  a  big,  burly,  good-natured  kind  of  man, 
with  a  sort  of  sporting  air  about  him,  who  had  really  gone  a 
good  deal  out  of  his  way  to  make  Fitzgerald's  stay  at  Boat  of 
Garry  pleasant  for  him.  And  his  present  mission  was  to  say 
(Avith  profuse  apologies  for  delay)  that  at  last  the  steam-yacht, 
the  Black  Swan,  as  they  called  her,  had  got  her  new  boiler  in, 
which  was  to  increase  her  speed  by  two  miles  an  hour,  and 
all  she  wanted  now  was  to  get  in  a  few  tons  of  coal  and  a  store 
of  oil;  and  would  he,  that  is,  Fitzgerald,  care  to  take  coach 
and  rail  to  Cork,  and  make  the  trip  in  her  from  Cork  Harbor 
to  Bantry  Bay  ? 

"  Oh  no;  no,  thank  you,"  said  Fitzgerald,  hastily. 

"Sure  'twould  be  as  safe  as  sitting  in  chapel,"  said  Mr. 
McGee,  with  a  good-natured  laugh.  "  We'll  wait  for  smooth 
wather;  and  if  there's  too  heavy  a  swell  when  we  come  to 
Cape  Clear  or  the  Mizen  Head,  can't  we  run  back  and  put  into 
Glandore  V 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  Fitzgerald,  "I  don't  feel  inclined  to 
go  to  Cork  just  at  present." 

' '  I  was  thinking  'twould  be  a  bit  of  variety  for  ye ;  for 
divil  the  much  there  is  to  do  about  here  at  this  time  of  the 
year." 

"  The  fishing  is  capital." 

' '  The  fishing ! — the  fishing,  did  ye  say  ?" 

' '  If  you  like  to  wait  for  lunch,  you'll  have  a  bit  of  a  three- 


GLIMMERINGS.  307 

pouud  sea-trout  I  caught  in  the  stream  there  ouly  yesterday 
afternoon." 

' '  D'ye  say  that,  now  ?  It's  myself  has  tried  it  half  a  dozen 
times,  and  I  might  as  well  have  been  throwing  a  fly  into  me 
grandmother's  tay-pot.  But  faith  I'll  stay  to  lunch  wid  ye, 
and  give  the  ould  mare  a  hit  of  a  rest." 

Master  Willie  did  not  say  anything  about  the  number  of 
trout  to  be  found  in  the  adjacent  stream  ;  but,  at  all  events 
this  particular  one  proved  to  be  most  excellent,  and  Mr.  McGee 
proceeded  to  make  himself  very  much  at  home. 

"Katie  darling,"  said  he  to  Mrs.  Dunne  when  sJie  brought  in 
the  beer,  "isn't  there  a  glass  of  whiskey  about  the  house  now  ?" 

"I  beg  your  i^ardon  for  forgetting,"  said  Fitzgerald;  "but 
really  I  am  not  sure  who  ought  to  play  the  part  of  host." 

"Well,  many's  the  evening  I've  spent  in  this  very  room 
with  the  poor  boy  that's  gone  ;  and  a  pleasanter  companion 
or  a  finer  gintleman  there  was  not  in  the  country, "  said  he. 
"Thank  ye,  my  good  gyui-l;  and  isn't  there  a  drop  o'  hot  wa- 
ther about  now?  Well,  sir,  ye've  a  good  ould  Irish  name,  and 
I  hope  ye'U  have  a  happy  stay  among  us ;  an'  niver  fear,  ye'U 
be  mighty  plazed  with  tlie  Black  Sivan  when  we  get  her  round, 
and  sure  ye'U  be  able  to  run  up  to  Glengariff  whenever  ye 
want,  and  the  divil  sweep  her  if  she  doesn't  do  her  ten  moils 
an  hour." 

The  quite  novel  excitement  of  meeting  a  stranger  had  al- 
most driven  the  contents  of  Miss  Chetwynd's  letter  out  of 
Fitzgerald's  head;  but  when,  after  luncheon,  they  went  out  to 
the  seat  fronting  the  lawn,  and  had  cofi^ee  there  on  the  little 
marble-topped  table,  and  lit  their  pipes,  the  quiet  charm  of  the 
place  again  stole  over  him,  and  he  could  not  help  for  a  mo- 
ment wondering  what  his  sensations  would  be  if  he  were 
really  the  owner  of  such  a  delightful  spot.  Of  course  it  was 
out  of  the  qviestion.  A  more  preposterous  white  elephant 
could  not  be  imagined.  Where  could  he  find  money  to  keep 
up  such  a  house — to  pay  wages  and  find  i)ro vender  for  the 
horses?  It  was  like  offering  a  crossing -sweeper  the  use  for 
the  season  of  a  three-hundred-ton  yacht.  Indeed,  he  so  clear- 
ly saw  that  this  could  only  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  pretty 
sentimental  fancy  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Chotwynd — as  some- 
thing so  obviously  outside  tlie  limits  of  practical  ])ossibilities 


308  SHANDON   BELLS. 

— that  he  was  very  nearly  mentioning  it  to  this  good-natured 
lawyer;  but  as  Mr.  McGee  had  for  the  moment  dropped  into  a 
snooze,  he  forbore,  and  finally  concluded  he  would  say  nothing 
about  the  matter. 

The  quiet  was  enough  to  send  any  man  to  sleep.  The  day 
had  brightened  up ;  there  were  wider  deeps  of  blue  between 
the  ribbed  white  clouds,  and  the  mellow  sunlight  fell  warm 
on  the  meadows  and  on  the  lawn,  on  the  glancing,  trembling 
green  of  the  broad-leafed  limes,  and  on  the  still  yellower 
green  of  the  drooping  foliage  of  a  swaying  acacia.  The  air 
was  soft  and  warm,  and  yet  moist,  and  it  was  pervaded  by  a 
scent  of  all  growing  things — a  general,  vague,  delicious  pei'- 
fume  that  perhaps  came  chiefly  from  the  lush  grass  there  not 
yet  cut  for  hay.  A  curlew  or  two  Avere  stalking  along  the 
shore,  where  the  bold  white  cimeter  of  the  sea  came  in  between 
the  meadows.  A  blackbird  shot  through  the  rhododendrons, 
and  the  silence  seemed  to  miss  its  suddenly  closed  song. 
But  there  was  always  the  plash  and  gurgle  of  the  stream  at 
the  foot  of  the  lawn,  and  sometimes  the  distant  bark  of  a  dog 
or  the  rumbling  of  a  cart  spoke  of  a  life  far  remote  from  this 
enchanted  inclosure  that  seemed  to  be  given  over  to  sunlight 
and  peace  and  the  growing  of  green  leaves. 

The  lawyer  awoke  with  a  start. 

"  Begorra !"  said  he. 

"You  were  saying,"  observed  Fitzgerald,  just  as  if  he  had 
not  been  asleep  at  all,  "that  she  was  registered  up  to  eighty 
pounds  on  the  squai'e  inch ;  but  of  course  the  boiler  has  been 
tested  beyond  that — " 

"  Faix,  I  believe  I've  been  asleep,"  said  Mr.  McGee,  rubbing 
liis  eyes.  " 'Tis  no  wonder,  when  ye  get  out  of  the  worrld. 
What  will  ye  be  afther  doing  now  all  the  afternoon  ?" 

"I?  I  am  going  do"wn  to  the  stream  to  see  if  I  can't  catch 
another  sea-trout  for  my  dinner." 

"Good  luck  to  ye,  thin;  and  I'll  go  and  get  the  mare  out, 
for  'tis  a  mighty  long  drive  to  Bantry." 

So  that  unusual  feature  of  life  at  Boat  of  Garry,  a  visitor, 
disappeared,  and  Fitzgerald  was  left  to  the  solitude  and  silence 
and  dreamy  loveliness  of  the  place.  In  the  aftex'noon,  how- 
ever, he  caught  a  good  sea -trout,  and  also  a  brown  one  of 
about  three-quarters  of  a  pound — a  fair  size  for  this  small 


GLIMMERINGS.  309 

stream.  And  again  lie  had  dinner  by  himself;  and  thereafter 
he  smoked  and  read  as  usual.  By -and -by,  when  the  moon 
was  clear  on  the  gravel-walk,  he  stole  outside;  he  had  got 
into  a  way  of  doing  that.  The  servants  thought  the  new 
master  merely  wished  to  have  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  after  the 
smoke  of  the  dining-room,  before  going  to  bed. 

And  perhaps  it  was  only  that.  He  walked  along  the  gravel 
in  the  clear  light  (though  the  moon  was  now  waning),  and 
he  listened  to  the  croak  of  the  heron  and  the  cry  of  the  cur- 
lew down  by  the  sea.  He  went  along  to  the  road,  climbed 
over  a  wire  fence,  and  made  his  way  up  a  steep  bank  where 
there  was  a  clearance  among  the  trees.  When  he  got  to  the 
top,  he  was  on  the  side  of  a  deep  and  almost  black  chasm— the 
wooded  glen  through  which  came  down  the  little  brooklet 
that  passed  by  the  end  of  the  lawn.  And  there  he  sat  down 
on  the  stump  of  a  felled  tree,  and  looked  around,  and  was 
alone  with  the  night  and  the  stai's  and  the  moon-lit  world. 

This  glen  was  smaller  and  narrower  than  the  one  near 
Inisheen,  but  it  was  a  far  more  lovely  place;  for  above  and 
beyond  it  towered  dark  hills,  rising  far  and  solemnly  into  the 
clear  night  sky.  There  was  a  more  spacious  view,  also,  of 
this  broad  silver  creek  running  out  to  meet  the  wide  waters  of 
Bantry  Bay,  and  of  wooded  islands  and  long  promontories, 
and  of  the  dusky  shore  beyond,  that  seemed  to  lie  behind  the 
moonlight,  and  was  half  lost  in  shadow.  Night  after  night 
he  climbed  up  to  this  spot ;  and  of  course  it  was  merely  to 
look  at  the  beautiful  picture,  and  to  listen  to  the  strange, 
sad,  distant  sounds  in  the  stillness.  Sometimes  a  faint  per- 
fume of  the  sea  came,  borne  along  by  the  slight  stirring  of  a 
breeze;  sometimes,  in  a  dead  calm,  before  any  wind  was  mov- 
ing, he  thought  he  could  hear  a  trembling  of  the  great  deep 
in  the  darkness,  and  a  whisper  along  the  shore.  Sometimes, 
moreover,  as  he  sat  there,  with  the  silent  hills  above,  and  the 
great  sea  beyond,  a  wild  fancy  got  into  his  brain  that  he  could 
hear  a  voice  in  the  sound  of  the  stream  below — the  stream 
down  there  in  the  dark ;  it  became  quite  plain  :  a  human 
voice — so  strange,  so  strange  and  clear:  Over  running  water: 
my  life  I  give  to  you.  The  voice  sounded  quite  close.  All 
trembling,  he  would  bend  his  head  forward:  might  there  not 
be  two  people  there?  or  only  one  voice? — the  voice  of  a  girl 


310  SHANDON  BELLS. 

who  was  dead,  and  gone  away  from  the  world — a  young  girl 
who  used  to  be  associated  with  all  young  and  beautiful  things, 
like  hawthorn  and  blue  speedwells  and  sun -lit  mornings,  when 
there  was  a  freshness  in  the  air  ?  And  then  again  there  would 
be  nothing  but  the  aimless  and  meaningless  murmur  of  the 
stream  down  there  in  the  ravine;  and  the  awful  hills  and 
the  sombre  sea  would  have  no  speech  or  message  for  him ;  and 
what  was  the  use  or  value  of  this  throbbing,  fretting,  tortured 
insect  life  between  the  dark  dead  woi'ld  and  the  cold  and  dis- 
tant and  pitiless  skies  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TO  THE  RESCUE. 


About  this  time  there  began  to  appear  in  the  columns  of  a 
London  daily  newspaper  a  series  of  articles  which  very  soon 
attracted  the  attention  and  curiosity  of  the  public.  They  were 
a  new  feature  in  journalism ;  some  went  the  length  of  saying 
that  they  were  a  new  feature  in  English  literature.  They  were 
called  "The  Occupations  of  a  Recluse,"  and  professed  to  give 
some  account  of  the  various  pursuits  incidental  to  a  quiet  coun- 
try life ;  but  they  were  in  reality  a  description  of  solitary  ram- 
bles by  road-side  and  sea-shore  and  stream — a  succession  of 
carefully  studied  out-of-door  scenes  that  had  a  quite  unaccount- 
able charm  about  them.  For  this  way  of  describing  nature 
was  not  the  poetical  way  of  bringing  together  similitudes,  say- 
ing that  one  thing  is  like  another  thing,  and  inviting  the  ima- 
gination to  hop  the  little  differences.  Nor  was  it  the  other  way 
of  giving  an  honest  and  trustworthy  catalogue — a  gamekeeper 
sort  of  catalogue — of  the  phenomena  of  the  hedge-row  or  the 
wood,  leaving  the  reader  who  has  sufficient  time,  ti'aining,  and 
patience  to  fill  in  the  light  and  color  and  background  of  the 
picture  for  himself.  No ;  there  was  something  strange  in  this 
way  of  looking  at  things.  There  was  a  minute  observation, 
it  is  true,  put  down  in  the  simplest  of  terms ;  and  there  was  a 
certain  atmospheric  quality  that  made  the  picture  clear  and 
vivid.     But  there  was  more  than  that :  there  was  a  kind  of  sen- 


TO  THE  RESCUE.  311 

sitive,  pathetic  thrill  in  the  wi'itiiig:  these  sights  and  sounds 
that  were  so  quietly  and  unobtrusively  chronicled  seemed  inter- 
penetrated by  a  subtle  human  sympathy — rather  sad,  perhaps, 
iia  certain  of  its  under-tones.  Indeed,  to  some  it  seemed  that 
this  writer  had  got  behind  the  veil ;  that  even  the  sticks  and 
stones  and  flowers  had  whispered  to  him  in  his  solitude ;  that 
the  silence  of  the  hills  had  reached  to  his  heart.  And  very 
soon — as  we  shall  see  presently — he  began  to  abandon  even  the 
pretense  of  writing  about  definite  pursuits.  The  further  he  was 
allowed  to  drift,  the  further  he  drifted,  until  the  papers  grew 
to  be  mainly  the  reflections  of  a  man  who,  whether  it  was  a 
gun  he  held  in  his  hand,  or  whether  it  was  a  fishing-rod,  or 
whether  he  was  merely  looking  abroad  at  mountain  and  shore 
and  sea,  continually  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  myste- 
ries of  the  world,  and  with  the  old  and  sad  and  insoluble  prob- 
lems of  human  existence. 

Of  course  such  a  series  of  papers  looked  odd — at  the  outset, 
at  least — in  the  columns  of  a  London  daily  newspaper.  The 
editor  of  that  journal  was  himself  at  first  very  doubtful ;  but 
something  in  the  writing  struck  him,  and  as  his  time  and  atten- 
tion were  then  wholly  engrossed  by  a  cabinet  crisis,  he  shoved 
the  manuscript  into  his  pocket  and  took  it  home,  atid  showed 
it  to  his  wife,  who,  when  all  his  anxieties  and  intex'ests  were 
confined  within  the  sphere  of  j)olitics,  acted  for  him  as  the 
mouthpiece  of  the  vain  clamor  of  the  other  and  outer  world. 
Now  this  lady  happened  to  be  a  person  of  very  keen  discrim- 
ination in  literary  matters,  and  when  she  had  read  the  first  two 
of  these  papers  her  judgment  was  prompt  and  decisive. 

"This  writing  is  quite  extraordinary,"  said  she.  "  There  is 
a  description  of  a  frosty  night  settling  down  over  a  stretch  of 
bog-land  that  made  me  shiver  to  my  finger-tips." 

"It  is  not  news,  and  it  is  a  newspaper  we  publish,"  said  her 
husband,  doubtfully. 

"I  should  not  care  whether  it  was  news  or  not,"  said  she,  "so 
long  as  people  were  interested." 

"  It  is  very  magazinish,"  he  said. 

"Why  should  the  magazines  monopolize  literature?"  she 
answered. 

Well,  the  experiment  was  made,  and  tlie  public,  who  don't 
care  a  pin's  point  about  tlm  traditions  of  newspaper  offices, 


312  SHANDON  BELLS. 

seemed  to  like  these  quiet  and  clear  pictures  of  country  life, 
and  began  to  talk  about  them  even  amid  the  throes  of  a  cabinet 
crisis.  At  first,  it  is  true,  they  were  more  obviously  practical. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  information  about  dogs  and  guns, 
about  rabbit-snaring  and  deep-sea  fishing.  Even  the  good 
Scobell  was  driven  to  send  for  a  file  of  this  journal  (which 
he  did  not  regularly  see,  as  it  did  not  express  his  political 
views)  as  he  took  his  seat  in  the  library  of  his  club  one  evening 
after  dinner;  and  so  charmed  was  his  imagination  with  some 
of  these  sketches  that  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "Damme  if  I 
don't  take  a  shooting  in  Ireland  this  year!"  at  the  same  time 
bringing  down  his  fist  on  the  table,  to  the  excessive  alarm  of 
three  old  gentlemen,  who  had  each  been  fast  asleep  in  his  fa- 
vorite arm-chair,  and  who  started  up  to  see  if  the  world  had 
come  to  an  end. 

But,  as  has  already  been  hinted,  this  new  writer  by  slow  de- 
grees seemed  to  feel  that  he  was  being  allowed  a  good  deal  of 
latitude;  and  he  took  advantage  of  it  to  frequently  wander 
away  from  the  ostensible  purpose  of  these  articles,  and  to  in- 
sinuate, rather  than  to  state,  a  sort  of  philosophy  of  human  life 
which  had  some  odd  j)oints  about  it.  He  seemed  to  say :  "In 
this  strange  transit  through  the  world,  from  the  unknown  to 
the  unknown,  where  should  one  most  naturally  look  for  safe 
and  close  companions  whose  intimacy  could  not  be  filched 
away  from  us  or  altered  by  the  fluctuating  circumstances  of 
life?  Surely  in  the  grand  and  beautiful  things  around  us 
which  we  know  to  be  permanent.  The  time  is  so  short,  why 
seek  to  probe  the  unsearchable  mysteries  of  the  human  heart ; 
to  secure  and  imprison  the  elusive;  to  stake  one's  happiness 
on  so  unstable  a  foundation  as  human  affection?  Is  there 
anything  so  variable,  so  liable  to  change — nay,  to  cease  ?  But 
if  the  beautiful  things  of  nature  were  to  become  our  friends  and 
loved  ones,  then  securely  year  after  year  could  we  greet  the  re- 
appearance of  the  flowers;  and  securely  day  after  day  could 
we  welcome  the  wonder  of  the  dawn,  and  listen  to  the  mur- 
muring and  soothing  voice  of  the  sea.  The  friend  whom  we 
had  trusted  might  disappoint  and  betray  us;  loving  eyes  might 
grow  cold,  and  take  away  their  love-secrets  elsewhere;  but 
he  who  had  chosen  the  winds  and  the  seas  and  the  colors 
of  the  hills  for  playmates  and  constant  companions  need  fear 


TO  THE  RESCUE.  313 

no  change.  The  beautiful  human  face  ■would  fade — nay,  death 
might  step  in  and  rob  us  of  our  treasure;  hut  the  tender  loveli- 
ness of  the  sunrise  remained,  and  the  scent  of  summer  woods, 
and  the  ripple  of  the  rivulet  down  through  the  spacious  mea- 
dows. But  then  this  companionship  had  to  he  wooed  before  it 
was  won ;  the  secret  voice  had  to  be  listened  for;  the  eye  ti'ain- 
ed  to  know  this  wonderful  and  not  evanescent  beauty.  To 
such  a  lover,  secure  in  his  possession,  what  evil  could  fortuiie 
bring?  Friend  and  sweetheart  might  prove  false,  but  there 
was  no  discordant  note  in  the  music  of  the  lark;  the  suspi- 
cions and  envies  and  enmities  of  mankind  might  appall,  but 
there  could  be  nothing  to  doubt  in  the  clear,  beautiful  blue 
eye  of  the  speedwell ;  and  even  those  who  had  lingered  in  the 
fight  until  sorely  stricken  there  might  find  solace  in  retii'ing 
to  these  solitudes,  and  seeking  out  these  secret  companions,  let- 
ting the  seasons  go  by  peacefully  to  the  appointed  end.  '  Then 
are  they  glad  because  they  he  quiet;  so  He  bringeth  them  unto 
their  desired  haveny 

All  this  was  insiiiuated  rather  than  preached;  and  it  was 
only  here  and  there  that  some  finely  attuned  ear  caught  the 
under-note  of  sadness,  and  perhaps  guessed  at  its  cause.  Of 
course  the  bruit  of  these  articles  reached  the  house  in  Hyde 
Park  Gardens,  and  Miss  Chetwynd,  who  was  not  a  diligent 
student  of  newspapers,  and  had,  in  fact,  missed  them,  had  to 
hunt  them  all  out  one  afternoon  and  read  them  over  to  her 
aunt.  What  surprised  her  was  that  mere  sketches  of  sport, 
as  they  seemed,  had  the  effect  more  than  once  of  giving  her  a 
choking  at  the  throat;  but  nothing  was  said  by  way  of  crit- 
icism either  by  aunt  or  niece,  for  the  reading  was  just  finished 
by  dinner-time. 

At  dinner  Miss  Chetwynd  herself  introduced  the  subject,  and 
asked  if  any  one  knew  who  had  written  these  papers. 

"  I  don't,"  said  Dr.  Bade;  "  but  what  I  do  know  is  that  it  is 
a  thousand  i^ities  that  fellow  is  tbrown  away  on  literature.  Lit- 
erature does  not  want  liini.  Science  does.  I  can  assure  you, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  that  an  accurate  observer  is  a  very 
rare  bird  indeed — far  more  rare  among  men  of  science  than  is 
supposed.  There  are  so  few  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  look 
patiently  ;  they  must  jump  to  their  theory  at  once.  What 
does  literature  want  with  that  kind  of  observation  ?     T^itcniturr 

14 


314  SHANDON  BELLS. 

should  deal  with  the  mind — with  emotions.  That  fellow,  now, 
should  be  set  to  work  to  observe  the  habits  of  beetles  or  birds, 
or  the  action  of  the  tides,  or  some  useful  thing  like  that." 

"I  confess  I  was  disappointed,  after  all  the  talk,"  said  Pro- 
fessor Sims,  looking  over  his  gold  spectacles.  "I  glanced  at 
one  or  two  of  the  papers,  and  found  them  inconsequential. 
You  began  with  wild-fowl  shooting,  but  got  on  to  Shakspeai'e 
and  all  kinds  of  things.  Then  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  interfer- 
ing with  the  proper  business  of  the  ai'tist  —  describing  what 
ought  to  be  painted.  What  is  the  use  of  describing  the  silvery- 
waves  that  wind  makes  on  a  field  of  long  grass  ?  Every  one 
can  see  that  for  himself." 

"  Every  one  may  not  be  in  a  position  to  see  it,"  said  Miss 
Clietwynd,  in  her  gentle  and  yet  pointed  way.  ' '  This  is  bring- 
ing the  picture  in-doors  for  you." 

' '  That  is  not  to  be  described  in  words ;  that  is  for  an  artist 
to  pamt,"  continued  the  professor. 

"Could  he  ?"  she  said,  quietly. 

"But  there  is  something  to  be  said,"  Dr.  Bude  interposed 
again,  "  for  his  theory  that  the  eye  should  be  trained  to  observe 
the  beauty  of  all  manner  of  simple  things,  so  that  you  may  in- 
crease the  value  of  life.  That  is  j)ractical  and  sensible,  it  seems 
to  me.  Even  if  you  don't  give  science  a  lift,  you  can  make  a 
country  walk  more  interesting.  He  seems  to  have  picked  up 
some  curious  illustrations  of  the  morphology  of  plants.  And 
I  had  forgotten,  I  confess,  about  the  abortive  stamens  of  the 
primrose.  You  have  read  these  papers,  Mrs.  Chetwynd  ?"  add- 
ed the  tall,  lank,  dark  man. 

"Mary  has  just  finished  reading  them  to  me." 

"What  is  your  oj)inion,  then?  What  is  the  writer?  A 
man  of  science  excusing  himself  for  idleness  ?  a  philosopher 
taken  to  shooting  snipe  ?  or  an  artist  taken  to  literature  be- 
cause his  pictures  won't  sell  ?" 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  old  lady,  rather  hes- 
itatingly, and  with  none  of  her  usual  sprightliness.  ' '  I  was 
thinking  when  Mary  was  reading  them  that — that  if  my  poor 
boy  had  taken  to  writing,  most  likely  that  was  the  kind  of  sub- 
ject he  would  have  chosen  to  write  about.  I  liked  the  papers. 
They  seemed  a  little  sad  sometimes — at  least  wistful  and  strange. 
There  is  a  kind  of  remoteness  about  them." 


TO  THE   RESCUE.  315 

"What  is  your  opinion,  then,  Miss  Mary  ?"  he  asked. 

Mary  Chetwynd  started  slightly ;  she  had  been  listening  with 
downcast  eyes. 

"I  ?"  said  she,  somewhat  slowly.  "What  I  think  is  that 
they  are  written  by  a  man  whose  heart  is  broken." 

Indeed,  she  seemed  preoccupied  during  dinner;  and  when 
the  people  had  gone  she  went  quickly  back  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  she  had  left  the  cuttings  from  the  newspapers,  and  set 
to  work  to  read  them  carefully  over  again.  Her  aunt  follow- 
ed her  in  a  short  time,  and  found  her  deeply  engaged. 

"You  have  no  more  of  the  newspaper  articles  to  read,  have 
you,  Mary  ?" 

"No;  I  was  only  looking  over  them  again." 

By-and-by  she  looked  up ;  but  the  old  lady  could  not  see  that 
her  niece  seemed  a  little  agitated. 

"Auntie,  surely  you  must  know  who  has  written  these  pa- 
pers ?" 

"I,  child?"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  absently.  "Well,  I  was 
dreaming  about  them.     I  think  he  might  have  written  them." 

"But,  auntie,  don't  you  recognize  the  place?  It  is  Boat  of 
Garry." 

The  old  lady  sighed. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  he  would  have  written  about,  no  doubt— 
the  place  he  was  so  fond  of." 

"But,  auntie,  these  articles  are  written  about  Boat  of  Garry. 
Don't  you  recognize  it  all — the  creek,  and  the  glen,  and  the  isl- 
ands, and  the  sea  ?  Why,  the  acacia  on  the  lawn  is  there ;  and 
the  little  marble-topped  table:  it  is  like  a  photograph.  Mr. 
Fitzgerald  has  written  these  articles." 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ?  Yes,  I  should  not  wonder,"  said  the  aunt, 
though  she  was  obviously  still  thmking  of  the  nephew  whom 
she  had  lost.  ' '  He  is  very  clever.  I  suppose  he  began  to  write 
early.  I  suppose  it  wants  training.  But  I  think — Frank — 
could  have  written  them." 

"What  I  am  thinking  of  is  this,  auntie,"  said  her  niece,  with 
some  touch  of  feeling  in  her  voice,  "that  if  these  articles  are 
written  by  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  we  have  no  right  to  ask  him  to 
remain  in  that  loneliness.  I — I  suppose  he  must  have  met 
with  some  sorrow:  there  it  is  in  every  line.  I  say  we  have  no 
right  to  ask  him  to  remain  there.      I  am  certain  he  wrote  those 


316  SHANDON   BELLS. 

papers.  Didn't  you  see  the  reference  to  the  heronry  at  Glen- 
gariff  ?  and  he  has  put  in  Berehaven  as  clear  as  can  be.  And 
if — if  he  is  in  trouble,  no  matter  what  it  is,  it  is  not  for  wo- 
men to  let  him  be  there  all  by  himself,  eating  his  heart  out  in 
solitude.  It  isn't  human.  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  how  sol- 
itary the  place  would  be  if  one  were  there  alone  until  I  read 
those  articles— we  always  had  plenty  of  society.  It  must  be 
di'eadful :  doesn't  it  sound  dreadful,  auntie  ?" 

' '  Oh  no,  Mary ;  he  seems  so  pleased  with  the  birds  and 
the  different  things  around  him —  So  you  think  that  is  Mr. 
Fitzgei'ald  ?  Dear  me !  he  has  become  quite  famous,  though  no 
one  knows  his  name." 

"They'll  know  it  soon  enough." 

"  And  that  is  his  life  at  Boat  of  Garry  that  you  have  been 
reading  to  me  ?  Yes,  it  is  like  the  place,  too— the  gun-room 
even,  and  the  stufPed  birds.  You  must  read  them  all  over 
again,  Mary.  Then  it  was  he  who  saw  the  young  rabbit  trot 
along  and  tell  its  father  and  mother  ?  That  was  very  prettily 
written ;  now  that  I  think  of  it,  it  must  have  been  in  the  wood 
beside  the  glen,  just  over  the  wire  fence;  I  wonder  I  did  not 
notice  before  how  like  it  was  to  the  place !" 

"But  you  don't  seem  to  understand  what  I  say,  auntie;  you 
are  so  full  of  dreams  and  pictures;  and  I  am  in  the  main  re- 
sponsible for  Mr.  Fitzgerald  going  to  Boat  of  Garry,  and— and 
something  has  got  to  be  put  right,  auntie." 

"  Well,  then,  child,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  I  confess 
it,"  the  old  lady  said. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald  told  me  something,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd, 
with  an  unaccustomed  flush  on  the  clear-cut,  intelligent  face, 
"before  he  left  for  Boat  of  Garry,  and  I  guessed  more.  Do 
not  tell  him  so,  auntie— don't  breathe  a  word  of  it — but  I 
fancy  he  has  been  in  some  trouble,  and  that  solitary  place 
must  have  been  a  dreadful  place  to  be  in.  I  should  have 
thought  of  it.  It  was  my  fault.  But  I  thought  if  he  were 
there  for  a  time  you  would  get  accustomed  to  the  notion  of 
some  friend  or  other  occupying  the  place,  and  then  that  you 
might  let  it." 

"  I  have  asked  you  not  to  speak  about  that,  Mary.  I  can 
have  only  a  xew  years  to  live ;  and  if  for  that  short  time  I  choose 
to  do  what  I  wish  with  mv  own — " 


TO  THE   RESCUE.  317 

"Auntie  dear,  don't  speak  like  that  to  me,"  the  girl  said, 
going  to  the  old  lady  and  putting  her  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
' '  Surely  you  know  it  was  not  for  my  own  benefit  that  I  thought 
of  it.  It  is  not  money  that  is  likely  to  come  between  you  and 
me,  I  hope." 

The  aunt  took  the  girl's  hand  and  patted  it. 

"No,  no.  You  ai'e  a  good  child.  I  wish  you  were  more 
saving  with  your  money.  Now  what  is  it  you  want  me  to 
do?" 

"  One  of  two  things,  auntie  dear.  After  reading  these  pa- 
pers, I  am  quite  distressed  to  think  of  Mr.  Fitzgerald  being 
there  in  that  loneliness  he  describes;  and  I  want  you  to  ask 
him  to  come  back  at  once." 

"Child,  I  want  him  to  have  the  place.  To  whom  else  could 
I  give  it  ?  Who  else  could  have  found  out  the  charm  of  the 
neighborhood  and  written  like  that  ?  No ;  I  have  thought  over 
it,  Mary.  I  could  neither  sell  nor  let  Boat  of  Garry ;  and  I 
would  not  have  it  go  to  the  Lawrences,  to  have  all  those  ill- 
bred  young  cubs  stamping  through  my  poor  Frank's  rooms; 
and  what  good  would  it  be  to  you  ? — you  would  marry  and  give 
it  away  to  somebody  I  know  nothing  about." 

"If  you  please,  auntie  dear,  what  I  have  is  quite  enough," 
said  the  tall  young  lady,  somewhat  frigidly. 

"Oh  yes,  I  know;  and  anything  more  you  might  have  you 
would  fling  away  in  Whitechapel,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a 
smile.  "Well,  then,  why  should  Mr.  Fitzgerald  come  back? 
Why  should  he  not  become  familiar  with  the  place  ?  Why 
should  he  not  stay  for  the  shooting  ?" 

The  niece  remained  silent  for  a  minute  or  so. 

"Well,  then,  there  is  another  thing  you  must  do,"  she  said. 
"I  think  you  and  I  might  go  over  to  Boat  of  Garry." 

"To  Boat  of  Garry !"  said  the  old  lady,  rather  faintly. 

"Very  shortly  now,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd,  cheerfully,  "ev- 
erybody will  be  leaving  town,  and  my  poor  old  auntie  will  have 
nobody  to  bring  her  all  the  wicked  gossip.  Why  should  not 
we  go  too  ?" 

"To  Boat  of  Garry,  child ?"  said  the  old  lady,  almost  re- 
proachfully. 

"It  is  not  like  you,  auntie,  to  think  of  refusing  to  comfort 
a  friend  in  distress,"  said  her  niece. 


318  SHANDON  BELLS. 

• '  But  what  do  I  know  of  his  distress  ?  Aiid  what  could  I 
do,  since  I  am  not  to  breathe  a  word  about  it  ?" 

"Well,  auntie,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  girl,  frank- 
ly. "My  conscience  is  not  quite  clear.  I  was  mainly  respon- 
sible for  the  arrangement ;  and  I  am  afraid  we  have  been  rather 
cruel.  I  should  like  to  see  how  things  are  going  at  Boat  of 
Garry;  perhaps  there  will  be  no  need  for  us  to  remain;  we 
could  pay  a  short  visit,  and  then  go  on  to  Killarney.  I 
should  feel  more  at  ease.  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Fitzgerald  has  got 
into  a  sort  of  morbid  state  through  being  all  alone  there.  That 
may  be  very  good  for  his  literary  prospects,  and  people  may 
begin  and  talk  about  him  now  and  make  him  famous;  but  I 
would  rather  have  nothing  to  do  witli  the  great  god  Pan  and 
his  fashioning  of  the  reed  by  the  river." 

"You  are  asking  a  great  deal  from  me,  Mary,"  said  Mrs. 
Chetwynd,  after  a  while. 

"I  think  I  am  asking  what  is  right,  auntie." 

"It  will  be  all  the  old  sorrow  over  again,"  she  said,  ab- 
sently. 

' '  Oh  no,  auntie,  not  that ;  it  will  only  be  beautiful  memo- 
ries now.  I  am  sure  you  would  like  to  see  Dan  and  Wel- 
lington again,  and  Murtough  and  Kate,  and  the  Ghoul,  and 
old  Father  Time,  and  the  children  up  at  Knockgarvan." 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing  going  into  an  empty  house,  child." 

"Oh,  but  it  won't  be  empty,  auntie!"  said  her  niece,  cheer- 
fully. ' '  We  will  have  the  Ballykilloge  Barrys  over  to  show 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  if  he  is  to  have  the  place,  what  it  can  contain ; 
and  we  must  drive  to  Kenmare  to  see  the  old  General;  and 
wouldn't  Murtough  be  glad  to  take  us  on  to  Killarney  ?" 

"  I  never  thought  to  see  Boat  of  Garry  again,"  said  the  old 
lady,  wistfully. 

"Indeed,  auntie,  if  I  were  going  to  be  so  munificently 
generous  as  to  make  a  present  to  a  friend  of  a  house  and 
garden  and  shooting  lease,  and  horses  and  carriages,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  I  do  think  I  should  want  to  see  how  he  liked  the 
place,  and  if  he  was  pi'oj)erly  grateful.  How  do  you  know 
that  Mr.  Fitzgerald  would  take  it  ?  How  do  you  know  but 
that  he  sees  nothing  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

"  You  can  judge  by  these  articles,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd ;  but 
there  was  a  yielding  smile  on  her  face. 


AT   BOAT   OF   GARRY.  319 

''You  will  be  able  to  judge,  auntie,  when  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
drives  with  us  from  Glengarilf ;  and  then  you  will  see  wheth- 
er we  have  been  too  cruel  in  condemning  him  to  such  a  solitary- 
banishment.  Now  that's  settled,  auntie,  and  there  is  not  to 
be  another  word." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

AT    BOAT    OF    GARRY. 


Mary  Chetwynd  read  and  re-read  the  "Occupations  of  a 
Recluse"  until  every  seai'ching  and  sensitive  phrase  seemed 
to  find  an  echo  in  her  heart;  and  when  at  last,  one  morning 
toward  the  end  of  July,  she  found  herself  standing  at  a  win- 
dow in  the  hotel  at  Glengariff,  looking  out  on  the  beautiful 
calm  bay  and  the  woods  and  the  mountains,  it  almost  appear- 
ed to  her  as  if  a  dream  had  become  a  solid  reality.  For  the 
Recluse  had  written  a  good  deal  about  this  neighborhood, 
though  not  specifying  names ;  and  she  recognized  the  place 
now,  not  as  she  had  known  it  in  former  years,  but  as  trans- 
figured by  the  new  liglit  and  color  he  had  conferred  upon 
it.  It  was  the  dream-picture  become  real ;  here  were  all  the 
points  of  it — the  rose  hedge,  the  little  landing-stage,  the  wide 
water,  the  Martello  tower,  and  the  far  ranges  of  the  hills. 
The  place  had  a  strange  interest  for  her.  It  was  something 
other  than  the  Glengariff  that  she  used  to  know. 

Her  aunt  came  into  the  room. 

"I  wonder  whether  Mr.  Fitzgerald  will  come  with  the  car- 
riage," said  the  niece. 

"I  have  been  wondering,"  said  the  old  lady,  doubtfully, 
"whether  we  should  tell  him  that  we  know  of  his  having 
written  these  articles." 

"It  can  not  be  long  a  secret;  everybody  is  certain  to  find 
out." 

"It  needed  the  interposition  of  a  cabinet  minister  before  we 
could  make  sure,"  said  the  aunt,  however. 

"I  was  sure  from  tlie  beginning,  auntie.     It  was  only  you 

who  must  needs  go  and  get  Dr.  Bude  to  beg  Mr.  to  ask 

the  editor  of  the  Daily  Mirror.     And  all  that  trouble  for  no- 


320  SHANDON  BELLS. 

thing — you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  auiitie.     Anj'' 
one  could  see  the  papei'S  were  written  about  Boat  of  Garry." 

"Scold  yourself,  Mary  Chetwynd;  don't  scold  me,"  said  the 
old  lady.  "There  was  no  trouble  about  it.  You  remember 
what  Dr.  Bude  said  the  moment  I  asked  him  ?— that  it  was 
difficult  for  newspaper  editors  to  get  at  the  secrets  of  cabinet 
ministers,  but  that  the  reverse  of  the  process  would  prove  to 
be  easy  enough.  And  a  pretty  thing  it  would  have  been  if  we 
had  come  all  this  way  on  a  mission  of  charity  and  compassion, 
and  found  that  it  was  not  Mr.  Fitzgerald  at  all  who  had 
been  writing  in  the  newspapers.  What  would  you  have  said 
then  ?" 

There  was  a  rumble  of  a  carriage  below  in  the  road. 

"Oh,  auntie,  come  quick!"  the  niece  cried.  "Here  are 
Dan  and  Wellington,  and  Murtough;  and  here  is  Mr.  Fitzger- 
ald too.     But  what  is  he  doing  on  the  box  ?" 

The  old  lady  went  to  the  window;  and  when  she  caught 
sight  of  the  empty  carriage,  she  inadvertently  put  her  hand 
on  her  niece's  arm,  without  saying  a  word.  Then  she  turned 
away,  her  eyes  full. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  cheerfully  (though 
in  her  heart  she  guessed  that  Fitzgerald  had  out  of  delicacy 
refrained  from  presenting  himself  to  the  old  lady  as  the  occu- 
pant of  her  nephew's  place) — "  I  know.'  Of  course  you  must 
see  the  sceneiw  so  much  better  from  the  box.  Of  course  that 
is  it.  Now,  auntie  dear,  are  you  quite  ready  ?  Are  all  your 
things  sent  down  ?" 

"I  think  so,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  when  she  had 
recovered  her  composure.  "You — you  must  make  apologies 
to  Mr.  Fitzgerald  for  our  interrupting  him.  We  sha'n't  stay 
long.  He  may  have  his  own  friends  coming  for  the  shooting. 
We  don't  want  the  carriage  to  take  vis  to  Killarney,  if  you 
wish  to  go  back  that  way.     We  can  hire." 

' '  I  don't  think  you  would  get  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  agree  to 
that,  auntie,"  the  younger  lady  said,  quietly. 

Fitzgerald  was  in  the  hall  when  they  went  down-stairs; 
and  he  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  them,  and  said  tha^ 
their  luggage  was  all  in  the  carriage,  and  were  they  ready  ? 
In  this  partial  dusk  he  did  not  seem  changed  at  all,  except 
perhaps  that  his  manner  was  somewhat  grave.     And  he  rather 


AT  BOAT  OF  GARRY.  321 

avoided  observation,  as  it  were;  he  waited  until  they  went 
out,  and  then  followed. 

But  when  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  her  niece  got  into  the  car- 
riage they  found  that  the  main  part  of  their  luggage  had  been 
placed  on  the  two  seats  opposite  them,  leaving  no  further 
room.     The  Boots  of  the  hotel  shut  the  door. 

"Leave  that  oj)en,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd,  almost  angrily. 
"  Murtough,  why  is  all  the  luggage  down  here  ?  Mr.  Fitzger- 
ald, they  will  make  room  for  you  in  a  moment." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  he,  going  round  to  the  other  side. 
"  I  will  get  on  the  box." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  she,  with  promptitude.  "You  must 
have  seen  everything  that  is  to  be  seen  about  here  many  a 
time.  Murtough,  take  these  things  up  beside  you.  See,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,  here  is  your  seat  cleared.  Don't  you  think  that 
auntie  and  I  have  had  enough  of  each  other's  company 
during  such  a  long  journey  ?  And  we  have  all  the  gossip 
of  the  neighborhood  to  get  from  you.  I  suppose  old  Father 
Time  has  a  dozen  more  complaints  about  the  Knockgarvan 
children  ?" 

So  Fitzgerald  had  to  take  his  seat  inside  (the  previous  ar- 
rangement had  been  a  cunning  device  of  his  own),  and  away 
they  di'ove.  For  a  time  there  was  a  little  embarrassment. 
He  was  unaccustomed  to  new  faces;  he  would  rather  have 
been  on  the  box.  Then  Mrs.  Chetwynd  had  got  it  so  clearly 
in  her  mind  that  he  was  already  the  actual  owner  of  Boat  of 
Garry  that  she  kept  making  little  ingenuous  excuses  for  their 
intrusion.  But  very  soon  the  light  and  pleasant  humor  of 
Mary  Chetwynd,  and  the  clear  frankness  of  her  eyes,  dispersed 
these  awkwardnesses,  and  Bantry  Bay  and  all  its  surround- 
ings began  (for  him,  at  least)  to  assume  quite  a  new  and  cheer- 
ful aspect.  Boat  of  Garry,  too :  did  he  not  know  tliat  the  old 
gardener,  with  his  stoop,  and  his  long  hair,  and  his  scythe, 
was  familiax'ly  spoken  of  as  "old  Father  Time"  ?  Had  he  not 
observed  how  Ghoul-like  was  the  engineer,  stoker,  and  captain 
of  the  Black  Swan  when  he  raised  his  head,  all  smothered  in 
coal-dust,  from  the  yacht's  bunkers,  and  glared  through  his 
huge  brass-rimmed  spectacles  ?  This  landau :  had  no  one  told 
him  it  was  proj)erly  called  "the  Ark,"  especially  in  wet  wea- 
ther, when  its  vast  capacity  could  have  transported  half  the 

14* 


332  SHANDOX  BELLS. 

neighborhood  safely  through  the  rain  ?  Perhaps  he  had  never 
heard  of  H.M.S.  Coalscuttle  ?  At  all  events,  she  said,  she  was 
pleased  to  see  that  the  Ghoul  had  not  blown  him  into  the  air. 

"I  think  it  is  very  wicked  of  Mary,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"to  come  and  throw  ridicule  on  everything,  and  make  you 
think  light  of  the  place.  Perhaps — perhaps  it  is  from  old  as- 
sociation, but  I  consider  Boat  of  Garry  very  pretty. " 

"Who  could  say  otherwise  ?"  he  answered.  "  It  is  a  beau- 
tiful neighborhood." 

"But  a  bit  lonely  ?"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  timidly. 

"Oh  no." 

She  raised  her  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"You  don't  find  it  lonely  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  he,  simply.  "I  mean — that  is — well, 
perhaps  it  might  be  called  lonely ;  but  I  find  the  solitariness 
of  it  its  chief  charm,  I  think." 

She  was  silent  for  a  second.  Then  she  said,  good-na- 
turedly : 

"Auntie,  what  do  you  think  of  that  as  a  compliment? 
Why,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  we  thought — we  imagined  —  that  you 
might  be  rather  lonely  here — and — and  we  thought  of  giving 
you  the  pleasure  of  our  company  for  a  week  or  two — I  mean 
a  few  days — " 

She  was  cleai'ly  embarrassed ;  but  there  was  a  liumorous 
smile  on  her  face  all  the  time.  Then  she  looked  up  with  her 
frank  clear  look. 

"I  will  confess  the  truth,  Mr.  Fitzgerald.  My  dark  and  ne- 
farious scheme  has  failed.     Auntie  won't  let  Boat  of  Garry." 

"I  don't  wish  it  even  talked  about,"  said  the  old  lady,  but 
without  sharpness. 

"And  so  you  see  all  my  plotting  and  counter-plotting  has 
only  ended  in  your  having  been  banished  away  from  human- 
kind for  all  this  time." 

"But  Boat  of  Garry  is  not  such  a  howling  wilderness.  Miss 
Chetwynd,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  Humanity  exists  there 
as  elsewhere;  and  human — folly,  shall  we  say  ?  You  don't 
know  what  tragic  passions  may  be  smouldering  in  all  that 
quiet.  Murtough,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  somewhat, 
' '  has  discovered  that  a  man  at  Adrigole  made  Kate  an  offer 
of  marriage  before  she  married  Murtough — " 


AT   BOAT   OF  GARRY.  323 

"I  know.  She  came  to  me  about  it.  Why  did  the  stupid 
girl  not  tell  her  husband  ?     What  harm  was  there  in  that  ?" 

"Why,  none.  Only  the  pitiableness  of  it,"  he  said,  ab- 
sently. "It  is  merely  the  old  story.  When  you  see  three 
jackdaws  flying  along  together  in  spring-time  you  know  what 
a  story  of  jealousy  and  hatred  and  madness  that  means,  and 
how  one  poor  chap  is  doomed  to  an  inevitable  fate.  But  it 
appears  that  the  gentleman  from  Adrigole,  having  recently 
taken  to  drink,  and  idleness,  and  Fenianism,  and  so  on,  is 
now  desirous  of  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  Kate;  so 
there  is  to  be  a  tremendous  head-smashing  when  he  and  Mur- 
tough  meet." 

"I  will  put  an  end  to  that,"  she  said,  promptly,  "for  I 
know  Pat  Carey's  master." 

' '  I  am  afraid  Pat  Carey  hasn't  any  master  to  speak  of 
now,"  said  he.      "But  Murtough  can  hold  his  own." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence;  and  only  the  driving  through 
the  delicious  air;  and  the  opening  out  of  the  beauties  of  the 
far-reaching  bay.  Mary  Chetwynd  was  afraid  she  had  said 
too  much  about  his  loneliness.  She  could  not  explain  to 
him,  here  and  now,  what  she  had  been  guessing  about  him 
from  these  writings.  She  had  been  listening  to  inner  secrets 
when  she  was  I'eading  those  papers.  Now  everything  seemed 
so  ordinary  and  matter  of  fact — as  he  pointed  out  where  the 
coal  smack  had  come  to  grief,  or  asked  Mrs.  Chetwynd  if  she 
had  read  Professor  Siras's  lecture,  or  got  Murtough  to  stop 
the  carriage  so  that  he  could  get  out  to  walk  a  steep  part  of 
the  road.  And  yet,  sometimes,  when  he  was  absently  looking 
away  over  the  wide  expanse  of  water,  there  was  a  look  in 
his  eyes  that  told  her  something  she  had  only  imagined,  and 
that  convinced  her  that  this  visit  on  the  part  of  her  aunt 
and  herself  was  not  so  much  amiss. 

When  they  swept  round  the  gravel-drive  and  drew  up  in 
front  of  the  house,  it  was  Miss  Chetwynd's  aim  to  make  a  rare 
bustle,  so  that  her  aunt  should  have  no  opportunity  of  indul- 
ging in  sad  recollections.  Sure  enough,  here  was  old  Father 
Time,  with  his  scythe,  just  finishing  off  the  lawn;  and  here 
was  the  pretty  Kate,  all  smiling  and  pleased;  and  Tim  was 
sent  to  bring  the  dogs ;  and  the  Ghoul  was  to  be  summoned  to 
report  about  the  new  boiler.     But  indeed  Mrs.  Chetwynd  did 


324  SHANDON   BELLS. 

not  seem  to  mind  as  much  as  had  been  expected  her  entering 
this  house.  It  Avas  far  fi'om  being  an  empty  house.  Every- 
thing was  noise  and  turmoil  and  confusion.  And  when  at 
last  something  like  order  had  been  restored,  and  when  the 
three  sat  down  to  lunch,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  so  far  from  being 
dejected,  said,  with  a  smile  on  the  pretty,  bright  old  face, 

"Why,  Mary,  this  is  quite  like  old  times." 

The  luncheon  was  not  a  sumptuous  one ;  but  the  old  lady 
was  obviously  highly  pleased — with  something  or  other. 

"Your  telegram,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  came  late  last  night," 
Fitzgerald  said,  ' '  and  I  had  to  get  away  early  this  morning, 
or  I  should  have  tried  to  get  you  a  sea-trout,  or  a  brace  of  wood- 
pigeons,  or  something." 

"Oh,  but  this  will  do  capitally,"  she  said.  "If  Kate  Avould 
only  let  us  have  some  wine.  I  hope  you  found  the  wine  to 
your  liking,  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ?" 

"I — I  have  no  doubt  it  is  excellent,"  said  he,  flushing 
somewhat. 

' '  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  not  tried  it — all  this 
time  ?"  said  she,  staring. 

"The  beer  is  very  good  indeed,"  said  he,  evasively. 

The  old  lady  looked  at  her  niece,  as  if  to  say,  "There  is 
something  to  be  amended  here" ;  but  she  said  nothing. 

Then  she  began  to  cross-examine  him  about  his  impressions 
of  the  place,  and  his  pursuits,  and  so  forth,  just  as  if  she  had 
never  heard  about  the  "Occupations  of  a  Recluse."  Did  he 
like  the  situation  of  the  house  ?  The  shooting  promised  to  be 
good  this  year  ?  And  how  about  the  winter — would  it  not  be 
a  terribly  dull  place  in  winter  ?  And  she  was  very  much  sur- 
prised that  he  had  not  made  any  use  of  the  Black  Swan. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  steam-yachts,"  said  he,  "but  I 
suppose  it  costs  a  good  deal  in  coals  before  you  can  get  steam 
up?" 

"A  trifle — a  mere  trifle,"  she  said.  "  Surely  it  was  not  that 
that  hindered  you  ?" 

"I  thought  if  you  were  letting  the  place  it  might  be  as  well 
to  have  a  full  stock  of  coals  in  the  boat,"  said  he. 

"Never  mind,  auntie,"  said  the  niece.  "You  and  I  and 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  will  all  have  a  famous  trip  to-morrow,  if  the 
day  is  fine,  and  we  will  see  what  the  new  boiler  can  do." 


AT   BOAT  OF  GARRY.  325 

"Not  I,  "said  the  old  lady,  with  decision.  "You  two  may 
g'o  if  you  like.  I  wish  to  end  my  days  in  a  peaceable  kind  of 
way." 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  Miss  Chetwynd,  "have  you  ever 
steered  a  small  steam-yacht?" 

"  I  have  never  been  on  board  one." 

"Well,  the  sensation  will  be  a  new  one  for  you — you  must 
not  miss  it.  You  will  have  the  pleasing  impression  that  a 
wild  beast  has  run  away  with  you,  and  that  you  haven't  the 
least  notion  against  what  it  is  going  to  rush.  Then  the  Ghoul 
is  generally  below  at  liis  fires ;  and  I  suppose  you  don't  know 
much  about  the  navigation  of  Bantry  Bay  ?" 

"Nothing  whatever." 

"That  is  still  more  excellent,"  she  continued,  gravely. 
"And  when  you  see  the  finger  of  the  dial  informing  you  that 
you  are  about  twenty  pounds  above  the  registered  pressure, 
you  don't  know  how  to  let  off  the  steam,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Capital! — capital!  It  will  be  the  greatest  enjoyment  of 
your  life.  The  Ghoul  will  be  below;  j^ressui-e  will  be  100 
pounds  on  the  square  inch;  the  wild  beast  will  be  running 
away  with  you ;  and  you  don't  know  where  the  rocks  are. 
And  yet  they  say  that  Boat  of  Garry  is  a  sleepy,  unexciting 
sort  of  place !" 

"If  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Chetwynd,  I  would  rather  leave 
the  management  of  that  wild  war  steed  to  you." 

"To  me?  Oh  no.  When  there  is  a  man  on  boards  of 
course  the  man  steers.     It  isn't  a  woman's  place." 

"But  suppose  the  man  prefers  to  stay  on  shore  ?" 

"  Then  you  are  afraid  ?" 

"  Ye.s,  I  am." 

"  I  tliought  men  never  acknowledged  that." 

"It  does  not  much  matter  whether  they  acknowledge  it  or 
not.  If  you  put  a  man  on  a  railway  engine,  and  stai't  it,  and 
send  him  careering  along  the  line  Avithout  any  power  to  stop, 
and  then  if  you  ask  him  whether  he  is  quite  happy,  and  ho 
says  '  Yes,'  you  can  judge  for  yourself  whether  he  is  a  truthful 
person." 

"Besides,"  continued  the  young  lady,  in  the  same  calm  and 
placid  manner,  ' '  you  know  you  have  to  get  the  yacht  out  of 


326  SHANDON   BELLS. 

the  creek  first ;  and  the  deep  channel  is  about  a  dozen  yards 
wide;  and  it  twists  between  rocks;  and  the  curi'ents  are 
fearful." 

"Mary  Chetwynd !"  said  her  aunt,  angrily,  and  then  she 
turned  to  Fitzgei'ald.  "I  don't  know  what  has  got  into  her 
head,  but  she  seems  determined  to  put  you  out  of  conceit  with 
the  whole  place.  The  yacht  is  as  safe  as  sitting  in  that  easy- 
chair — why,  look  at  the  new  boiler !  And  it  is  most  delightful 
to  be  able  to  go  away  on  a  perfectly  still  day — when  an  ordi- 
nary yacht  would  be  unable  to  move — and  go  as  far  out  as 
you  please,  and  have  luncheon  there,  and  come  back  just 
when  it  suits  you.     I  would  go  with  you  myself  to-morrow — " 

"Only —  ?"  said  the  niece. 

"  Only  what  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  know  what  the  excuse  was  to  be  this  time, 
auntie  dear,"  said  the  imperturbable  young  lady. 

"But  I  mean  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  valiantly. 

"Now  you  know  very  well,  auntie,  you  are  as  sensitive  as  a 
cat,  and  the  least  speck  of  dirt  on  your  face  or  on  your  hands 
makes  you  fidgety  and  miserable  ;  and  when  H.M.S.  Coalscut- 
tle does  take  it  into  its  head  to  throw  up  a  cloud  of  wet  soot 
at  starting — " 

"  But  we  can  go  below  until  she  has  started,"  the  aunt  said. 

"Who  is  to  steer,  then  ?" 

"  Tim  can  steer." 

"He  knows  no  more  of  the  rocks  than  the  man  in  the 
moon.  Besides,  would  you  miss  the  expression  of  the  Ghoul's 
face  when  he  gets  to  the  Narrows  ?" 

"Come  away,  Mr.  Fitzgerald, "  said  the  old  lady,  "and  we 
will  have  coffee  outside.  If  you  stay  here  any  longer,  Mary 
will  persuade  you  that  sea  air  is  poisonous,  and  that  Boat  of 
Garry  is  celebrated  for  small-pox." 

Now  this  fighting,  which  had  been  brought  about  of  set  pur- 
pose by  Mary  Chetwynd,  had  the  desired  effect  of  tying  down 
the  attention  of  the  old  lady  to  the  affaii's  of  the  moment ;  and 
it  was  wonderful  with  what  little  concern — how  easily  and 
naturally — she  now  took  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  bench 
outside  the  porch  and  looked  around.  The  ordeal  she  had  fear- 
ed was  no  ordeal  at  all.  She  was  regarding  the  trim-cut  lawn, 
and  the  masses  of  rhododendx'ons,  and  the  openings  through 


AT   BOAT  OF   GARRY,  327 

the  trees  which  revealed  glimpses  of  the  sea  and  distant  hills ; 
and  she  was  thmking  that  for  a  man  of  letters  no  more  desir- 
able haven  of  rest  could  have  been  found.  Was  it  a  wonder 
that  he  had  written  those  charming-  papers  in  this  dream-like 
quiet?  The  world  seemed  filled  with  sunlight  here;  and  yet 
there  was  a  slight  cool  breeze  coming  over  fi*om  the  sea  to  tem- 
per the  heat ;  and  as  it  passed  along  it  stirred  some  lime-trees 
down  there  by  the  rivulet,  and  the  sw-eet  scent  was  all  around. 
And  the  old  lady  was  very  pleased  to  see  the  place  looking 
so  beautiful ;  and  she  was  pretty  sure  in  her  own  mind  that  a 
contemplative  student  would  be  glad  enough  to  have  it  as  a 
gift,  and  to  remain  there  for  a  portion  of  the  year  at  least,  and 
do  the  best  work  of  which  he  was  capable  in  it,  and  perhaps 
also  submit  to  be  bothered — for  a  week  or  two  in  the  summer — 
by  a  visit  from  two  idle  women  esca^^ing  into  this  gracious 
quiet  from  the  clang  of  London  life. 

Occupied  by  this  i^leasing  fancy,  the  old  lady,  accompanied 
by  the  two  younger  people,  now  set  out  on  an  inspection  of 
the  place.  Father  Time  received  high  praise  for  the  condition 
of  the  garden.  Then  they  visited  the  kennel,  and  the  stables, 
and  the  fowl-house,  and  what  not;  and,  as  the  day  was  so 
beautiful,  Mrs.  Chetwynd  said  she  thought  she  could  walk  as 
far  as  the  shore,  and  have  a  look  at  the  Black  Swan  lying  at 
her  moorings. 

But  to  do  this  they  had  to  return  to  the  house  and  take  a 
road  leading  somewhat  inland  from  the  marshy  stretches  ly- 
ing alongside  the  creek ;  and  they  were  leisurely  walking  along, 
chatting,  and  watching  birds  and  butterflies  and  so  forth,  when 
Fitzgerald  suddenly  discovered  that  right  ahead  of  them,  at 
some  distance,  stood  the  Knockgarvan  bull,  calmly  contempla- 
ting them,  and  appai'ently  disposed  to  contest  their  right  of 
way.  It  was  an  awkward,  even  a  serious,  situation.  He  knew 
the  beast  and  its  ill  temper,  and  had,  indeed,  passed  it  several 
times,  though  on  these  occasions  he  had  been  accompanied — 
as  was  his  wont  in  going  about — with  one  or  other  of  the  dogs, 
and  when  there  is  a  dog  about,  the  bull  does  not  jiay  much  atten- 
tion to  its  master.  However,  now  tlicre  was  no  help  for  it; 
there  was  no  gate  for  the  two  women  to  go  through,  no  wall 
for  them  to  get  behind ;  and  he  knew  very  well  that  the  first 
symptom  of  fear  or  retreat  would  be  the  first  inducement  for 


328  SHANDON  BELLS. 

the  bull  to  pursue.  Moreover,  he  dared  not  even  tell  his  com- 
panions of  tlieir  danger;  for  he  was  afraid  the  old  lady  might 
scream  and  try  to  run  away,  and  there  was  absolutely  no  shel- 
ter. So  he  continued  talking  in  a  loud  and  unconcerned  way, 
cai*ef  ully  keeping  a  short  distance  ahead  of  the  two  ladies. 

"Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  he  was  saying  (with  an  anxious 
eye  on  the  bull  all  the  time),  "that  purple  loosestrife  is  a  very 
handsome  plant  when  you  see  it  growing  by  the  way-side — 
very  handsome — yes — splendid  color  out-of-doors — " 

Here  he  had  come  within  stone's-throw  of  the  bull,  which 
stood  immovable  but  for  the  angry  flapping  about  of  its  tail. 
He  picked  up  a  pebble  and  carelessly  shied  it  at  the  animal. 

"Get  out  of  that  !"  he  growled,  with  apparent  indiffei'ence, 
and  forthwith  continued  his  talking. 

" — but  it  is  worth  nothing  in-doors.  It  does  not  tell  in 
a  room.  It  loses  the  pink  and  becomes  purple.  I  told  Tim 
to  cut  a  lot,  and  meant  to  put  them  in  the  dining-room  when 
you  came;  but  I  found  they  would  not  do — " 

Here  the  animal  gave  a  low,  warning  bellow ;  but  there  was 
nothing  for  it.  He  kept  on  talking;  always  a  little  ahead  of 
his  companions ;  and  he  knew  the  time  was  come,  for  good  or 
ill. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  anxiously,  "hadn't 
we  better  go  back — " 

' '  Oh  no, "  said  he,  carelessly.  ' '  Come  along.  It  is  only  one 
of  the  Knockgarvan  beasts  strayed  down  from  the  farm.  Get 
out  of  the  way,  ivill  you  ?" 

He  lifted  this  time  a  big  stone — what  in  those  districts  is  call- 
ed a  rock— and  pitched  it  at  the  brute,  intending  to  miss  him. 
By  dire  mischance  the  lump  of  stone  landed  on  the  animal's 
nose;  and  Master  Willie's  heart  at  the  same  moment  leaped 
to  his  mouth,  for  he  was  convinced  that  the  beast  would  not 
endure  such  an  insult.  But  slowly  and  sulkily,  and  with  deep 
mutterings  and  flapping  of  the  tail,  the  coward  brute  yielded 
its  dignity,  and  crossed  a  ditch,  and  went  into  the  adjoining 
pasture.  Fitzgerald  was  much  too  prudent  to  try  a  repetition 
of  the  stone-heaving.     He  let  well  alone. 

"I  was  saying,"he  continued,  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
' '  that  loosestrife  isn't  good  for  lighting  up  a  room.  Fox-gloves 
are  better;  but  even  they  are  too  purple.     Now  a  splendid 


AT   BOAT   OF   GARRY.  339 

show  of  wild  flowers  is  to  get  the  marigolds  that  grow  in  the 
corn  here,  aud  mix  them  up  with  meadow-sweet — " 

He  cautiously  turned  his  head ;  the  bull — at  some  distance — 
was  regarding  them,  but  evidently  not  inclined  to  follow.  In 
a  few  more  minutes  they  were  down  at  the  little  landing-slip; 
and  here  was  the  Ghoul,  otherwise,  Shell  Glanny — a  great, 
awkward  -  looking  man,  with  bushy  black  hair  and  brass- 
rimmed  spectacles — seated  on  the  beach,  tarring  a  broken-do\vn 
old  punt. 

"Shell,"  said  Fitzgerald  to  him,  under  his  breath,  "haul  in 
the  boat  there,  and  I'll  row  the  ladies  out  to  the  yacht.  And 
then  you'll  go  back  to  the  house,  and  tell  Tim  to  bring  a 
couple  of  the  dogs  along  the  road,  and  dinve  the  Knockgarvan 
bull  up  to  the  farm.  And  you'll  tell  him  to  tell  the  boy  that 
the  next  time  he  lets  the  beast  go  wandering  down  here  like 
that.  111  come  up  with  a  stick  and  beat  him  till  he's  black  and 
blue." 

"Sure  I'll  do  it  mesilf  now,  sir,"  said  Shell,  looking  about 
for  an  instrument. 

Then  it  occurred  to  Fitzgerald  that  this  was  a  most  injudi- 
cious threat,  seeing  how  near  the  shooting  season  was. 

"No, "said  he;  "Tim  is  to  give  the  boy  this  shilling,  and 
say  I  am  much  obliged  to  him  for  keeping  his  dog  from  hunt- 
ing; and,  while  the  ladies  are  here,  would  he  see  that  the 
bull  is  kept  up  at  the  farm  ?" 

"Well,  well,  sir,  "said  Shell,  going  away  rather  down-faced, 
and  no  doubt  thinking  that  it  was  throwing  away  a  shilling 
when  a  beating  would  have  done  as  well  or  better. 

So  Fitzgerald  got  into  the  big  boat,  and  rowed  the  two  ladies 
(he  noticed  that  Mrs.  Chetwynd  kept  a  hand  tightly  grasping 
the  gunwale  all  the  time,  though  the  water  was  like  glass)  out 
to  the  Black  Swan,  and  got  them  on  board.  She  was  a  smart 
enough  looking  yacht  of  about  fifty  feet  in  length,  with  a 
small  calnn  aft,  and  a  larger  one  forward ;  and  as  there  was 
a  pretty  strong  odor  of  new  paint  about,  it  was  clear  that 
Shell  Glanny  had  been  occupying  his  spare  time  usefully. 
Indeed,  so  anxious  did  the  old  lady  seem  that  Fitzgerald  should 
express  approval  of  the  little  yacht  tliat  even  her  niece  re- 
frained from  making  disrespectful  comments;  nay,  she  even 
ujidertook  to  make  a  cup  of  tea  for  them,  until  she  found  that 


G30  SHANDON  BELLS. 

all  the  small  lockers  were  locked,  and  that  there  was  neither 
tea  nor  anything  else  to  be  got  at  on  board. 

"I  think  she  is  a  beautiful  little  boat,  and  very  handy  and 
convenient,"  said  Fitzgerald,  to  the  old  lady's  great  delight. 
"I  had  no  idea  there  was  such  room  in  her.  Why,  half  a 
dozen  people  could  sleep  on  board.  And  with  that  twisting 
channel  down  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  a  sailing  yacht  would 
never  be  able  to  get  in  here.  To-morrow,  then,  Mrs.  Chet- 
wynd,  would  you  like  to  take  a  trip  ?  for  I  will  tell  Shell  about 
getting  up  steam." 

"  If— if  you  wish  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Don't  drive  auntie  into  a  corner,"  said  the  niece, laughing. 
"She  would  be  trembling  all  the  time.  No;  she  shall  come 
down  to  the  beach ;  and  I  will  go  with  you,  if  you  like,  for 
I  know  the  way  down  the  creek;  and  we  will  have  a  short  run 
out  and  back,  and  pick  up  auntie  again.     How  will  that  do  ?" 

"  It  will  do  very  well,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  if  you  are  not  in 
one  of  your  scornful  moods.  But  when  Mr.  Fitzgerald  knows 
you  a  little  better,  he  will  know  when  you  are  speaking  the 
truth  and  when  you  ai'e  not." 

When  they  got  back  to  the  house  again  (there  was  no  bull 
to  contest  their  passage  this  time)  Fitzgerald  took  out  his  fish- 
ing-rod, and  said  he  was  going  down  to  the  stream  to  see  if 
lie  could  get  a  sea-trout  for  their  dinner,  while  the  two  ladies 
had  tea  brought  them  to  the  little  table  outside  the  poi'ch. 

"Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  after  a  time— what  a  beauti- 
ful, quiet,  golden  afternoon  it  was! — "I  wish  you  would  write 
to  Mr.  McGee,  and  ask  him  to  come  over  and  see  me.  Or  we 
can  send  up  the  yacht  for  him,  if  that  will  suit  him  best." 

"Very  well,  auntie,"  said  the  younger  lady,  dutifully; 
"but  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake." 

"Why?" 

"I  have  seen  it  brewing  all  day  long.  The  place  looks 
pretty;  Mr.  Fitzgerald  is  pleased  with  it,  and  you  are  proud 
of  it ;  and  you  have  gone  back  to  your  old  notion  of  giving  it 
to  him." 

"Well?" 

"What  would  he  do  with  it?  He  has  no  money  to  keep 
it  up,  as  poor  Frank  had.  You  couldn't  expect  him  to  live 
here  all  his  life,  in  any  case — a  young  man  like  that,  with  a 


AT  BOAT   OF   GARRY.  331 

great  career  before  liim.  Why,  you'd  never  even  have  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  to  let  him  say  '  Thank  you'  for  your 
kindness.  Besides,  I  Avouldn't  trust  the  conveyancing  of  a 
valuable  property  to  Mr.  McGee." 

"Really,  Mary,"  said  her  aunt,  with  a  little  laugh,  "you 
must  have  been  thinking  about  it  as  much  as  I  have  all  day. 
But  some  of  your  objections  meet  each  other.  I  don't  want 
Mr.  McGee  to  convey  the  property,  but  to  come  over  and  make 
a  calculation  as  to  what  would  be  necessary  to  keep  it  up  as  it 
stands.  When  I  present  a  jjicture  I  like  to  present  it  framed. 
And  then,  no  doubt,  if  what  people  say  about  these  writings 
is  ti-ue,  no  doubt  Mr.  Fitzgerald  would  have  to  live  a  part  of 
the  year  in  London ;  and  I  am  sure  you  would  be  as  glad  to 
see  him  as  I  should  be,  for  the  more  I  see  of  him  I  like  him 
the  better;  and — and  in  a  measure  I  should  like  him  to  be  to 
us  what — what  my  poor  boy  was.  Well,  that  means  money. 
That  means  an  allowance,  Mary.  Do  you  think  he  is  not 
deserving  of  it  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  auntie  dear.  But  all  the  deserving 
people  don't  meet  with  such  a  kind  friend.  I  suppose  he  will 
continue  to  write.  You  know,  auntie — now  don't  be  cross, 
for  I  am  only  talking  common-sense — I  think  you  were  too 
good  to  poor  Frank ;  and  many  a  time  I  wished  he  would  give 
up  his  hunting,  and  come  and  do  some  kind  of  useful  thing." 

"Now,  Mary,  that  is  enough,"  said  the  aunt,  but  without 
anger.  "We  are  not  all  reformei'S  and  politicians  like  you. 
If  my  poor  boy  pleased  him.self,  that  is  enough  for  me;  that 
is  what  I  like  to  think  of.  But  there's  always  good  sense  in 
what  you  say,  Mary.  Of  couise  I  should  not  dream  of  mak- 
ing Mr.  Fitzgerald  such  an  allowance  as  would  make  him 
independent  and  careless.  Oh  no.  But  I  think  I  can  trust 
the  lad.  I  like  the  look  of  his  eyes.  And  if  he  can  not  be 
everything  tliat  my  boy  was  to  me — well,  at  my  time  of  life 
one  is  glad  to  be  able  to  do  what  kindness  one  can ;  and  I 
don't  see  any  one  else  to  whom  I  would  rather  give  Boat  of 
Garry." 

The  niece  was  silent  for  a  little  while. 

"  Auntie,"  said  slie  at  length,  "if  you  are  quite  resolvea 
upon  this,  will  you  allow  me  to  tell  him  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes.     Why  not;?" 


332  SHANDON  BELLS. 

' '  There  are  one  or  two  things  I  should  like  to  say  to  him — 
if  you  don't  mind." 

"Why not?  Who  knows  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case 
better  than  you  ?  Well,  now,  Mary,  I  am  going  to  my  room 
to  lie  down  for  a  while ;  but  you  may  come  and  knock  at  my 
door  before  dinner." 

Master  Willie  was  not  fortunate  that  afternoon,  for  there 
was  not  a  breath  of  wind,  and  the  surface  of  the  pools  was  like 
glass;  and  he  was  returning  to  the  house  rather  disheartened 
— not  knowing  that  the  Ghoul  had  got  two  splendid  flounders, 
a  cod,  and  a  skate  in  his  drift-net,  and  that  Tim,  who  had  been 
sent  up  the  hill,  was  bringing  back  a  brace  of  mountain  hares 
and  a  couple  of  teal — when  he  met  Miss  Chetwynd.  She  was 
trying  to  plait  rushes,  and  not  succeeding  very  well. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  she,  looking  up  with  those  clear 
blue-gray  eyes  of  hers,  "was  not  that  rather  an  ill-tempered 
bull  we  met  this  afternoon  V 

"It  does  not  like  strangers." 

"  And  we  were  in  some  danger  ?" 

"Well,"  said  he,  hesitatingly,  "something  might  have  hap- 
pened." 

"I  thought  so,"  she  said,  regarding  him.  "Aaid  yet  you 
would  not  tell  us  we  were  in  danger." 

"What  would  have  been  the  use?  I  should  only  have 
frightened  your  aunt,  and  made  niore  mischief." 

"If  my  aunt  had  not  been  there,  would  you  have  told  me?" 
and  for  a  second  her  frank,  shrewd,  inquiring  eyes  met  his. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  would  have  told  you,"  he  said. 


THE  "black  swan."  333 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE     "black    swan." 

Mary  Chetwynd's  manner  was  ordinarily  marked  by  a 
perfect  ease  and  simplicity ;  it  seemed  to  suit  the  sincerity  of 
her  eyes;  women  noticed  it,  and  found  her  companionable; 
sick  children  wei*e  glad  to  be  nursed  by  her;  poor  j)eople  did 
not  become  self-conscious  when  she  entered  their  door;  at 
her  aunt's  table  she  sjioke  to  guests  and  servants  in  precisely 
the  same  voice ;  she  had  the  same  smile,  the  same  frank  look, 
for  every  one.  All  this  pertness  of  humor  she  had  displayed 
since  their  arrival  at  Boat  of  Garry  had  been  assumed ;  but  it 
liad  answered  its  purpose;  the  old  lady  had  taken  quite  nat- 
urally to  the  place;  there  were  no  fits  of  despondency  or 
gloomy  reminiscences.  But  when  she  herself  drew  near  the 
true  object  of  their  visit,  she  became  more  grave,  and  again 
and  again  found  herself  wishing  that  these  explanations  were 
well  over.  At  all  events,  chance  provided  her  with  an  ample 
opportunity  of  making  them. 

Next  morning  Mi*s.  Chetwynd  had  almost  resolved  to  go 
on  board  the  Black  Swan,  and  even  went  down  to  the  shore 
of  the  creek  with  them;  but  at  the  last  moment  she  changed 
her  mind,  and  said  she  would  go  to  the  hill  above  the  house, 
from  which  she  could  see  them  sail  away  out  into  Bantry 
Bay  and  back.  But  this  hesitation  had  caused  delay;  and 
when  at  length  Miss  Chetwynd  and  Fitzgerald  and  Tim  the 
keeper  got  on  board  the  little  yacht  they  found  the  Ghoul 
in  a  state  of  great  excitement  and  impatience.  There  was  a 
rapid  ebb-tide  running;  steam  was  up  to  within  five  pounds 
of  the  extreme  registered  pressure  ;  the  donkey-engine  was 
rattling  away  as  if  it  were  in  a  tin  box;  and  Shell  Glanny  was 
here,  there,  and  everywhere — at  the  moorings,  at  the  furnace 
door,  at  the  waste-pipe,  at  the  coals.  And  then,  before  Fitz- 
gerald fairly  knew  where  he  was  amid  all  the  uproar,  he 
found  himself  with  a  rope  in  his  hand,  and  the  rope  was  at- 
tached to  a  hauling  and  jerking  and  throbbing  iron  tiller,  and 


334  SHANDON  BELLS. 

he  knew  that  the  Black  Sivan  was  forging-  ahead  just  any- 
where, for  the  condensers  had  not  arrived,  and  he  was  en- 
veloped in  steam,  not  even  the  bow  of  the  boat  being  visible. 

"Miss  Chetwynd,"  he  called  aloud — for  the  Ghoul  was 
down  in  the  bunkers  again — "have  you  any  notion  where  we 
are  going  ?" 

"  Not  the  least,"  said  she.      "  But  Tim  is  at  the  bow." 

However,  the  steam  abated,  or  else  the  wind  freshened ;  at 
all  events,  he  began  to  get  glimpses  of  his  surroundings,  and 
strove  as  near  as  he  could  to  keep  this  raging  little  beast  in 
mid-channel.  And  what  a  noise  it  made  I — or  rather  a  suc- 
cession of  noises,  each  distinct,  and  each  sharply  following 
the  other.  And  then  there  was  still  another — a  sudden,  brain- 
dividing  shriek,  twice  repeated ;  and  he  saw  that  Miss  Chet- 
wynd had  hold  of  the  brass  chain  of  the  steam-whistle. 

"That  is  a  signal  to  auntie:  do  you  think  she  will  hear?" 
she  said — or  shouted. 

"Hear?"  he  answered.  "They  will  hear  it  at  New  York. 
I  believe  you  have  killed  every  curlew  within  six  miles  of  us." 

Then,  to  his  unspeakable  satisfaction,  the  great  black- 
headed  creature  with  the  big  brass-rimmed  spectacles  came  on 
deck  again,  and  assumed  charge  of  the  tiller,  calling  Tim 
along  to  help  at  the  same  moment.  It  was  evident  they  were 
approaching  the  dreaded  Narrows.  Now  and  again  in  the 
deep  clear  water  some  sudden  flashes  of  golden  brown  were 
seen — the  long  arms  of  the  sea-weed.  Far  ahead  there  were 
some  sti'ange-looking  swirls,  silver  curlings  on  the  glassy  blue, 
though  no  rocks  were  visible.  Moreover,  as  they  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  to  this  narrow  channel,  it  was  very  apjjarent  that 
the  tide  was  flowing  seaward  like  a  mill-race. 

"We  should  have  started  an  hour  before,"  said  Miss  Chet- 
wynd, looking  rather  apprehensively  at  the  swirling  water. 

"At  all  events  we  can't  turn  and  face  that  tide  now,"  her 
companion  observed. 

The  Ghoul  was  paying  heed,  not  to  them,  but  to  the  course 
of  the  water  and  the  lay  of  the  shoi'e.     Then  he  shouted, 

"Hard  over,  Tim !" 

Fitzgerald  lent  a  hand  too,  and  the  iron  tiller  was  jammed 
over.  Of  course  he  looked  to  see  the  yacht  swing  round. 
She  did  nothing  of  the  kind.      The  current  was  too  much  for 


THE  "black  swan."  335 

her  steering-way.  There  was  a  slight  scratch — a  sort  of  grat- 
ing sensation— only  for  the  briefest  possible  point  of  time. 

Fitzgerald  looked  at  Miss  Chetwynd — with  a  natural  sort  of 
inquiry;  for  she  knew  more  about  this  performance  than  he 
did.     He  found  she  was  regarding  him  and  waiting. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  fact,  the  whole  thing  had 
happened  before  they  had  had  time  to  think.  Immediately 
following  that  grating  scratch  along  the  keel  there  was  a  dis- 
tinct and  solid  bump  that  shook  the  yacht  from  stem  to  stern ; 
the  Ghoul  sprang  forward  to  shut  off  the  steam;  there  was 
the  slightest  tilting  over  of  the  boat;  and  then,  after  all  this 
excitement  and  noise,  the  strangest  imaginable  silence.  Ev- 
erybody stood  still,  doing  nothing.  The  Ghoul  looked  away 
astern  in  a  reproachful  kind  of  way.  Then  Fitzgerald  began 
to  wonder  whether  she  was  aground  on  rock,  or  on  shingle,  or 
on  mud,  and  whether  she  would  remain  upright.  And  then 
various  examinations  and  surmises  and  suggestions  I'esolved 
themselves  to  this — that  they  were  stuck  here  for  five  hours  at 
least,  with  the  compensation  that  the  summer  day  was  beauti- 
ful, and  around  them  a  perfect  and  delicious  quiet. 

"You  know.  Miss  Chetwynd,"  Fitzgerald  said  at  length, 
"Tim  and  I  might  manage  to  get  you  ashore  in  the  boat. 
We  should  be  whirled  along  a  good  bit,  but  that  would  only 
give  you  another  quarter  of  a  mile  to  walk  back  to  the  house." 

"Would  you  have  me  desert  the  ship?"  she  said.  "What 
might  become  of  Shell,  if  he  were  left  alone?  You  could 
never  pull  the  boat  back  to  the  yacht  against  that  current. 
Besides,  when  the  tide  rises  high  enough  to  float  the  yacht 
again,  who  knows  what  will  happen  ?" 

"  But  five  hours — "  said  he. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  she,  somewhat  diffidently,  "I — I 
have  some  things  to  tell  you  that— that  won't  take  up  five 
hours,  perhaps,  but  that  will  give  you  plenty  to  think  over 
for  that  time." 

"Not  too  serious ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh  no.     Not  at  all.     I  hope  not,"  she  said. 

So  they  had  to  set  to  work  to  make  themselves  comfortable 
during  this  enforced  detention.  Fortunately  the  Black  Swan, 
when  she  ran  into  tlie  bed  of  shingle  and  sea-weed,  fixed  her- 
self without  much  of  a  list;   and   the  deck  stools  were  quite 


336  SHANDON  BELLS. 

serviceable.  Sheil  Glanny  had  gone  below  to  bank  up  his 
fires  and  let  off  some  of  the  steam;  and  Tim  had  accompanied 
him.  These  two,  then,  were  practically  alone  in  this  shining, 
silent  world  of  sky  and  sea,  with  the  slow-sailing  white  clouds 
mirrored  in  the  blue  expanse  of  water,  and  the  slight  hissing 
all  around  them  of  the  currents  swirling  between  the  rocks. 

Mary  Chetwynd's  manner,  as  has  already  been  said,  was, 
in  ordinary  circumstances,  marked  by  a  perfect  ease  and  self- 
possession;  she  never  seemed  to  have  to  think  twice  about 
what  she  was  going  to  say ;  she  always  appeared  to  be  on  the 
most  simple  and  friendly  tei*ms  both  with  herself  and  with 
everybody  around  her.  Now,  however,  it  was  clear  that  she 
was  embarrassed.  She  remained  silent  for  a  time;  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  deck ;  once  or  twice  she  opened  and  shiit  her 
sunshade  aimlessly.  And  when  she  did  speak  she  jumbled 
nearly  all  the  things  she  had  to  say  together  in  a  very  inco- 
herent way : 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald — I — I  don't  think  you  and  I  have  been 
quite  fair  to  each  other.  I — I  have  been  I'eading  those  papers 
in  the  Daily  Mirror — I  did  not  know  you  thought  about  such 
things — and  then  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  been  quite  happy 
hei-e — and  auntie  wants  to  give  you  the  place — and  hopes  you 
will  stay  here — and  I  want  you  to  go  away." 

Her  fingers  were  trembling. 

" It  is  so  difficult  to  make  explanations,"  she  said.  "But  I 
feel  that  it  was  inconsiderate  of  me  to  ask  you  to  come  here — " 

What  could  make  her  so  timid  and  almost  distressed  ? — she 
who  ordinarily  did  not  seem  to  know  what  nervousness  meant. 

"I  hope  you  w^on't  think  of  it,"  he  said,  hastily  coming  to 
her  rescue,  and  with  an  embarrassment  about  equal  to  her 
own.  ' '  Yesterday  you  seemed  concerned  about  it  also.  Please 
don't  think  of  it  for  a  moment.  I  assure  you  it  is  a  very  good 
thing  for  people  to  be  alone  sometimes:  it  makes  them  find 
out  something  about  themselves.  Surely  it  is  not  a  trumpeiy 
matter  like  that  that  you  want  to  speak  about  for  five  hours, 
Miss  Chetwynd  ?  I  assure  you  I  have  enjoyed  the  time  tre- 
mendously since  I  was  here — I  don't  expect  ever  to  have  such 
a  holiday  again  as  long  as  I  live.  But  who  told  you  I  wrote 
those  papers  in  the  Mirror  f 

"Who  told  me?"  she  said,  with  her  face  brightening,  for 


THE  "black  swan."  339 

now  the  awkwardness  of  beginning  was  over,  and  here  was  a 
solid,  pi'actical  subject  that  involved  no  danger.  "They  did. 
Every  line— though  I  don't  think  you  ever  wrote  quite  in 
that  way  before.  Auntie  herself  wovild  have  led  me  to  sus- 
pect, for  she  thought  they  were  like  what  our  poor  Frank 
might  have  written,  Just  as  she  thought  about  the  other  pa- 
pers in  the  Household  Magazine.  So  there  must  be  some 
similarity;  but  yet  I  see  a  great  difference — " 

Here  she  flushed  slightly,  and  immediately  said: 

"I  wonder,  now,  if  jon  know  here  what  an  impression  they 
have  made  on  the  public  ?  I  suppose  not.  Do  you  know  that 
every  one  is  talking  about  them  as  something  quite  new  in  lit- 
erature ?  And  the  weekly  papers  have  been  saying  the  nicest 
things  about  them,  especially  the  Liberal  Review — " 

"No,  not  the  Liberal  Revieiv  ?"  said  he,  quickly. 

"Oh  yes, indeed.  Again  and  again.  When  you  go  back  to 
London  you  will  find  yourself  quite  famous." 

That  topic  ought  not  to  have  been  distasteful  to  a  young 
author,  but  he  merely  said : 

"I  have  had  some  letters  about  them.  And  invitations  to 
contribute  elsewhere.  One  publisher,  indeed,  wants  to  reprint 
them.  If  that  were  done,  and  if  the  public  cared  to  read  them 
in  that  form,  I  might  be  able,  after  all,  to  gain  some  little 
footing  in  literature — enough  for  a  beginner.  I  had  begun  to 
despair.  I  was  at  it  a  long  time,  and  of  course  one  does  not 
like  to  confess  one's  self  a  failure;  and  I  should  like  to  have  a 
definite  way  of  earning  a  living,  besides.  But  don't  bother 
about  my  affairs,  Miss  Chetwynd." 

"I  must,"  she  said,  brightly,  for  she  was  glad  the  ice  was 
broken.  "I  have  been  intrusted  by  auntie  with  the  duty  of 
telling  you  that  she  is  more  bent  than  ever  on  asking  you  to 
take  over  Boat  of  Garry — " 

"I  remember.  It  is  very  kind  of  her,  I  am  sure,"  he  said; 
"but  in  my  circumstances  it  would  be  worse  than  useless." 

"Yes;  so  she  understands,"  said  his  companion,  calmly. 
"You  mean  that  you  could  not  afford  to  keep  up  the  place. 
Every  one  must  see  that.  But  what  auntie  says  is  that  when 
she  presents  a  picture  to  anyone  she  presents  it  framed;  and 
of  course  she  would  see  that  you  had  enough  to  keep  up  Boat 
of  Garry  properly.     More  than  that — and  this  is  where  my 


340  SHANDON  BELLS. 

interest  comes  in — you  would  have  quite  enough  to  have 
rooms  in  London  besides,  and  you  might  spend  as  much  of 
the  year  there  as  you  wished ;  in  fact,  you  would  have  your 
entire  time  at  your  disposal." 

He  was  regarding  her  with  astonishment,  almost  with  in- 
credulity. 

"I  do  believe,"  she  said,  with  a  slight,  humorous  smile, 
"that  you  think  I  am  going  to  ask  you  for  a  subscription  to 
my  charities." 

"No,"  said  he;  "I  was  wondering  why  your  aunt  should  be 
so  kind  to  me.     This  is  overwhelming — " 

"Oh,  do  you  wish  to  know  why  poor  old  auntie  is  kind? 
You  had  better  leave  that  to  the  philosophers.     It  is  a  way  she 
has.     And  in  this  instance  I  don't  oppose  her.     I  hope  auntie 
will  live  many  years  yet;   and  I  don't  see  the  fun  of  keeping 
up  Boat  of  Garry  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  McGee.     Now,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,  as  auntie  doesn't  talk  any  longer  of  asking  you  to 
give  up  your  name  as  a  condition,  I  have  no  doubt  you  will 
become  the  owner  of  Boat  of  Garry,  and  you  will  be  your  own 
master,  and  have  all  your  time  at  your  disposal.     Very  likely 
auntie  may  expect   you  to  spend  most  of  the  year  here.     I 
hope  you  will  not.     You  will  be  in  a  position  to  be  of  very 
great  use  in  the  world.     Of  what  use  would  you  be  here  ?     It 
would  be  all  very  well  to  use  Boat  of  Garry  as  a  place  of  re- 
cuperation, after  work  done;  but  it  would  be  selfish — at  least 
so  it  seems  to  me — if  you  were  merely  to  settle  down  here 
to  enjoy  yourself,  even  in  the  most  innocent  way,  with  those 
delightful  rambles  that  you  describe.     Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  she 
said,  after  a  second,  "I  don't  think  you  have  been  fair   to 
me.     You  have  met  me  among  some  scientific  people,  and  you 
think  I  care  for  nothing  but  science.     You  think  I  am  heart- 
less.    Well,  let  that  be  as  it  may;  it  is  of  no  consequence; 
but  at  all  events  I  think  this :  that  those  who  are  well  off,  and 
in  a  position  where  they  enjoy  the  comforts  of  life  in  peace 
and  security,  should  remember  how  these  things  were  made 
possible   to  them— simply  through   the   best  people,  century 
after  century,  doing  their  best — and  they  ought  to  have  some 
gratitude,  and  be  willing  to  lend  a  hand  at  the  same  work, 
for  the  benefit  of  those  who  are  in  less  favored  circumstances. 
I  don't  like  to  talk  about  what  some  of  us  are  trying  to  do 


THE    ' '  BLACK   SWAN. "  341 

among  the  poor  in  the  east  end  of  London ;  for  it  isn't  very 
picturesque,  and  it  does  not  appeal  much  to  sentiment;  and 
then  it  is  so  easy  to  impute  motives.  Well,  I  don't  care  much 
what  the  motive  is,  if  the  result  is  the  same.  Very  likely  do- 
ing charitable  actions  is  only  another  form  of  self -gratification ; 
and  I  suppose  I  consider  myself  a  superior  person ;  but  let  us 
take  the  case  of  a  sick  woman  who  can't  stir  from  her  bed  to 
look  after  the  poor  room  and  kitchen,  and  she  is  afraid  her 
husband,  when  he  comes  home  at  seven,  will  be  discontented, 
and  go  away  to  the  public-house,  and  suppose  you  take  one  of 
your  district  nurses  to  the  place,  and  say  to  her,  '  Well,  never 
mind  about  the  physic ;  she  can  help  herself  to  that  if  the  bot- 
tle is  marked;  but  you  look  round  in  the  evening,  between 
six  and  seven,  and  give  the  place  a  bit  smartening  up,  and 
have  hot  water  for  the  husband's  tea  against  his  coming  home, 
and  stir  the  fire,  and  have  one  or  two  illustrated  pajjers  about' 
— well,  perhaps,  to  see  the  look  of  gratitude  on  the  sick  wo- 
man's face  is  only  to  flatter  your  self-love;  I  don't  say  it  is 
not ;  but  ask  the  poor  woman  what  is  her  opinion — whether 
she  would  have  that  done  for  her,  or  have  the  house  left  to 
its  discomfort  and  squalor,  and  her  husband  turn  out  and  leave 
her  alone." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  he,  slowly,  "that  I  should  be  quick  to 
impute  motives,  if  you  would  tell  me  what  it  is  you  are  doing 
there." 

"Oh,  but  when  I  find  a  sympathetic  listener,"  she  said, 
with  a  laugh,  "I  am  dreadful.  I  know  so  many  stories  that 
are  interesting  to  me  because  I  know  the  people;  but  they  can 
not  be  so  interesting  to  others — " 

' '  You  see,  Miss  Chet  wy  nd, "  he  continued, ' '  short  of  a  mirac- 
ulous rising  of  the  tide,  we  are  stuck  fast  here  for  four  hours 
and  a  lialf — " 

"And  you  would  have  four  hours  and  a  half  description  of 
our  lectures  and  entertainments,  our  Sunday  services,  and  dis- 
trict nurses,  and  open-air  spaces,  and  our  window  flower  boxes, 
and  all  that  ?  Oh  no.  Some  other  day,  perhaps.  At  this  mo- 
ment, Mr.  Fitzgerald,  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  ask 
whether  there  is  anything  that  might  serve  for  lunch  on 
board  this  shipwrecked  boat." 

"I  believe  there  is  a  tin  of  biscuits,"  said  he. 


342  SHANDON   BELLS. 

"  That  will  do  excellently." 

"  Shall  I  bring  tliem  now  ?" 

"  If  you  j)lease." 

Accordingly  he  went  down  into  the  little  cabin,  and  handed 
up,  not  only  the  biscuits,  but  also  two  bottles  of  soda-water 
and  two  clean  tumblers ;  so  that  they  had  a  most  wholesome, 
if  somewhat  simple,  banquet  on  deck  on  this  fair  warm  sum- 
mer day.  And  insensibly  she  began  to  tell  him  something  of 
her  own  troubles ;  for  it  appeared  that  those  charitable  jjeople 
were  not  all  of  one  mind ;  and,  besides  certain  schemes  and 
organizations  of  her  own  planning,  it  turned  out  that  she  be- 
longed to  one  or  two  societies  of  kindred  intent. 

"And  I  do  so  want  somebody  to  back  me  up,"  she  said. 
' '  You  must  know  I  am  a  dreadful  heretic  and  innovator,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald — I  am  the  champion  of  beer." 

"Oh,  indeed,"  said  he. 

"You  know,  it  is  easy  enough  to  get  on  with  the  boys' 
entertainments;  all  they  want  as  a  bribe  is  a  biscuit  or  two, 
with  some  ai^ples,  or  nuts  if  it  is  not  apple  time.  And  then 
we  are  doing  good  service  to  the  country  by  reading  them  pa- 
triotic poetry  or  stories  of  bravery  at  sea,  and  showing  them 
a  bit  of  practical  science  by  means  of  a  magic  lantern,  or  even 
hinting  that  a  boy  should  be  too  proud  to  steal,  and  not  refrain 
simply  from  fear  of  the  police  station.  But  the  men :  what  I 
say  is,  how  can  you  expect  the  Stepney  workman,  or  the  coster- 
monger  from  Shad  well,  or  the  tired  laborer  from  the  docks,  to 
come  and  sit  out  a  lecture  on  ventilation  or  some  such  thing, 
with  nothing  to  make  him  comfortable  but  a  cup  of  tea,  which 
gets  cold  directly,  and  with  his  pipe  in  his  pocket  ?  I  say  it  is 
asking  too  much.  I  say  it  is  not  common-sense.  What  harm 
is  there  in  letting  each  man  have  his  pint  of  light  ale — I  am 
afraid  they  would  not  take  to  the  Bavarian  beer,  though  that 
would  be  the  safest — and  his  pipe  ?  I  did  not  like  it  at  first; 
but  now  I  can  stand  a  hall  full  of  men  smoking  pipes.  One 
must  not  be  too  particular.  I  was  amused  not  long  ago  at  the 
bravery  of  Lady ,  who  came  down  to  see  how  we  were  get- 
ting along.  She  came  to  a  boys'  entertainment,  in  a  very  low 
neighborhood — to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  suspect 
about  one-third  of  them  were  thieves;  but  all  the  same  she 
stood  at  the  door  as  they  went  out,  and  shook  hands  with  each 


THE   "BLACK  SWAN."  343 

of  them,  and  complimented  them  on  their  good  behavior.  And 
the  next  night  I  had  got  them  together  I  thought  I  would  tell 

them  that  Lady was  a  great  friend  of  the  Queen's ;  and 

one  small  chap  said,  immediately,  '  Please,  miss,  did  the  lady 
ever  shake  hands  with  the  Queen  ?'  You  can  see  what  the 
poor  little  fellow  meant — that  he  had  shaken  hands  with  some 
one  who  had  shaken  hands  with  the  Queen.  But  there  again, 
that  shows  the  imprudence  of  allowing  strangers  to  come 
among  us  out  of  mere  curiosity,  for  they  would  call  that 
snobbishness — " 

"What  does  it  matter  what  they  call  it?"  said  Fitzgerald, 
with  some  warmth. 

' '  I  thought  it  was  very  pretty  of  Lady to  shake  hands 

with  each  of  the  boys ;  and  I  take  no  shame  to  myself  that  I 
told  them  she  was  a  friend  of  the  Queen's.  It  is  very  easy  to 
criticise  when  you  don't  have  to  face  the  actual  circumstances. 
I  know  it  took  me  some  time  before  I  could  bear  the  tobacco 
smoke.  I  tried  a  mean  way  of  getting  out  of  it  by  presenting 
them  with  good  tobacco;  but  that  was  no  use;  they  would  not 
smoke  mine:  I  suppose  it  was  too  delicate.  Oh,  did  you  hear 
what  Mr.  Scobell  did  just  before  we  left  London  ?" 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"He  sent  me  another  three  hundred  filters ! — just  think  of 
it !  So  there  will  have  to  be  another  big  lecture  and  a  distribu- 
tion as  soon  as  we  get  back." 

Apparently  this  young  lady  with  the  clear  eyes  and  the 
bright  smile  had  found  a  sufficiently  sympathetic  listener,  for 
the  time  passed  quite  unobserved  as  she  described  all  this 
work  that  was  going  on.  They  did  not  even  notice  that  the 
tide  was  now  flowing  in ;  that  one  or  two  shallow  banks, 
whei'e  the  heavy  sea-tangle  had  lain  exposed  in  the  sun,  were 
now  covered  by  the  sea  again ;  and  that  the  Glioul  was  watch- 
ful and  anxious. 

All  at  once  the  Blade  Swan  was  found  to  be  moving;  but 
it  was  only  a  list  from  one  side  to  the  other;  that  was  so 
sharp,  however,  that  it  very  nearly  threw  everybody  into  tlie 
water.  And  then  as  the  tide  rose  .she  gi-adually  righted ;  Slieil 
Glanny,  finding  she  was  deep  enough  astern,  ventured  upon 
backing  her  off;  there  was  just  enough  room  to  turn;  and  the 
next  minute  the  Black  Stvan  was  sailing  right  up  the  creek 


344  SHANDON  BELLS. 

again,  while  a  shrill  scream  or  two  from  the  steam-whistle 
would  tell  the  Boat  of  Garry  people  of  her  return.  And  then 
the  throbbing  and  puffing  and  churning  came  to  a  sudden 
end;  in  renewed  quiet  the  little  yacht  cut  its  way  through  the 
glassy  water;  with  the  boat-hook  Tim  dexterously  made  a  grab 
at  the  moorings ;  and  presently  the  two  voyagers  were  on  their 
way  to  the  shore. 

"There,  now,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  she  said,  as  they  walked  along 
the  road  together  to  the  house,  "have  I  been  the  whole  day 
talking  to  you  about  heaps  of  things  that  you  can  not  take  any 
interest  in,  and  all  that  I  meant  to  say  to  you  I  have  forgotten. 
Except  this — please  don't  stay  at  Boat  of  Garry  when  it  be- 
comes yours — at  least,  not  always.  I  am  very,  very  sorry  I 
asked  you  to  come  here :  I  would  not  have  done  so  if  I  had 
thought  you  were  going  to  write  about  it  like  that.  I  am 
very,  very  sorry — " 

She  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  with  her  eyes  downcast. 

"  But  why  ?"  said  he,  good-naturedly.  "Any  place  is  soli- 
tary when  one  is  alone ;  and  this  place  is  most  beautiful — that 
is  all  the  difference.  But  do  you  really  think,"  he  added,  more 
thoughtfully,  "that  these  papei'S  have  made  an  impression  on 
the  public  ?" 

"Most  certainly,"  said  she,  with  her  face  brightening. 
"Who  could  doubt  it?  Or  is  there  any  wonder  that  people 
.should  be  grateful  for  having  it  pointed  out  that  the  common 
things  of  the  world  are  far  more  beautiful  than  they  had  fan- 
cied ?     Does  it  not  make  life  a  little  richer  ?" 

"  But  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  said  he,  absently;  "I 
was  only  repeating  John  Ross — my  artist  friend,  you  remem- 
ber, Miss  Chetwynd:  I  was  only  pointing  out  what  he  had 
shown  me.  No;  why  I  asked  was  with  the  fancy  that  per- 
haps now  I  could  earn  something  in  literature.  Perhaps  there 
might  be  a  prospect  for  me  now;  indeed,  I  think  so  myself, 
from  one  or  two  offers  that  I  have  received.  Pray  forgive 
me.  Miss  Chetwynd,"  he  added,  suddenly  recollecting  himself, 
"for  talking  about  my  affairs  to  you;  but  indeed  I  might  say 
that  you  yourself  are  concerned—^" 

"I?"  she  said,  with  something  like  a  start. 

" In  a  measure,"  he  continued.  "I  should  like  to  go  back 
to  London  soon,  I  think — " 


THE    "black  swan."  345 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  of  that!"  she  exclaimed,  with  very  obvious 
eagerness. 

"And  if  matters  go  well,"  he  said — "  you  know  you  hinted 
about  a  contribution  to  all  these  varied  charities  of  yours — I 
say,  if  matters  go  well,  you  will  perhaps  allow  me  to  give  you 
a  conti'ibutiou." 

She  laughed  lightly.  She  did  not  think  it  was  probable  he 
was  so  soon  to  become  rich. 

"What  will  your  contribution  be?"  she  said,  idly,  as  he 
opened  the  big  iron  gate  for  her. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "if  your  aunt  would  consent — "  . 

"My  aunt !     What  has  she  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal,"  he  continued,  as  they  walked  along  the 
gravel-path  up  to  the  house.  ' '  I  was  thinking,  if  she  had  no 
objection,  my  contribution  ought  to  be — " 

"Not  two  hundred  pounds  a  year?"  she  suggested,  rather 
jokingly. 

"No,"  he  answered,  looking  round  at  the  beautiful  place. 
' '  I  was  thinking  that  my  contribution  ought  to  be — Boat  of 
Garry." 

15* 


346  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

PLANS     AND     DREAMS. 

"Now,  auntie  deai%"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  as  she  put  her 
hat  on  the  hall  table,  and  smoothed  her  hair,  and  went  into  the 
room,  ''  I  li:now  you  are  going  to  scold  me." 

"Indeed  I  am,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  some  astonishment 
and  indignation.  "Where  have  you  been?  To  Limerick? 
To  Queenstown  ?     Scold  you,  indeed ! — no  wonder !" 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  mean  about  that,"  her  niece  said.  "  That 
was  unavoidable.  We  have  been  close  by  all  the  time — stuck 
fast.  I  dare  say  you  were  afraid  of  the  bull,  and  came  straight 
home;  but  if  you  had  only  climbed  up  the  hill  high  enough, 
you  might  have  had  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  us  for  the 
last  five  hours.  Only  another  little  adventure :  one  gets  used 
to  them  on  board  the  Black  Sivan.'''' 

"  How  provoking,  now !"  Mrs.  Chetwynd  exclaimed.     "The 
very  first  time  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald  goes  to  try  the  yacht !     Of 
course  he  will  think  she  is  always  getting  into  trouble — " 
"  Isn't  she,  auntie  dear?" 

' '  What  was  Shell  Glanny  about  ?"  said  the  old  lady,  angrily. 
"Now,  auntie,  you  need  not  quarrel  with  Shell  Glanny. 
The  real  cause  of  the  accident  was  yourself.  You  kept  pre- 
tending you  wished  to  go,  just  to  assure  Mr.  Fitzgerald  that 
nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  a  trip  in  the  Coalscut- 
tle; and  so  we  were  late  in  starting,  and  at  the  Narrows  the 
current  came  after  Shell  Glanny  as  if  it  wanted  to  swallow 
him;  and  then  we  found  ourselves  quietly  shelved.  Now, 
auntie,  tell  me,  as  I  have  been  talking  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald  for 
these  five  mortal  hours,  haven't  I  done  my  best  to  make  up 
for  the  silence  he  must  have  endured  here  ?  And  what  will  he 
think  about  women's  tongues  after  that  ?" 

"I  have  not  the  least  doubt,"  said  the  old  lady,  XDeevishly, 
"that  you  w^ere  all  the  time  trymg  to  make  him  discontented 
with  Boat  of  Garry." 

"No,  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  said  the  young  lady.     She 


PLANS   AND  DREAMS.  347 

was  seated  with  her  back  to  the  window,  and  the  afternoon 
sun  touched  the  outline  of  the  prettily  shaped  head,  leaving 
the  face  in  shadow.  "But  still  bad  enough  to  merit  a  scold- 
ing. I  am  quite  prepared  for  it.  For  indeed,  auntie,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald  seemed  quite  surprised  when  I  told  him  what  a 
stir  these  writings  of  his  had  made ;  and  naturally  he  wishes 
to  get  back  to  London,  which  is  the  proper  place  for  a  literary 
man ;  and  no  doubt  he  is  ambitious — " 

"Yes,  and  no  doubt,"  said  her  aunt,  "you  encouraged  him 
in  thinking  of  leaving  Boat  of  Garry,  the  very  place  where  he 
found  just  such  things  as  he  could  write  about,  and  you  urged 
him  to  go  to  London,  where  he  will  have  no  specialty  at  all." 

"Auntie,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  "a  man  who  can  write  like 
that  can  write  about  anything;  it  is  not  a  question  of  place 
or  opportunity.  Why,  you  know,"  she  continued,  "that  all 
that  description  of  the  sea,  or  of  the  night-time,  or  salmon- 
fishingj  or  any  occupation  of  the  moment,  is  only  an  excuse. 
Surely  you  can  feel  that  there  is  something  that  is  behind  all 
that — something  that  gets  hold  of  people  though  they  can 
scarcely  tell  how.  I  will  undertake  to  say  he  could  make  a 
description  of  daybreak  in  Whitechapel  as  mysterious  and 
wonderful  and  interesting  as  a  description  of  daybreak  at 
Killarney.  Do  you  think  he  is  going  to  lose  his  eyes  because 
he  goes  to  London  ?" 

Miss  Chetwynd  glanced  outside  to  make  sure  there  was  no 
one  there. 

"  What  the  secret  of  it  is  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "only  he 
seems  to  give  you  the  sensation  that  all  the  inanimate  things 
in  the  world  are  alive,  and  watching  you,  and  patiently  sympa- 
thetic. Don't  you  remember,  auntie,  Mrs.  Sims's  solemn  vow 
that  never  again  would  she  put  on  her  table  flowers  that  had 
been  forced  white  in  cellars  ?  I  told  that  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
to-day,  and  he  laughed  and  said  it  was  nonsense ;  but  I  thought 
it  was  a  very  pretty  compliment.  I  want  to  show  him  what 
we  are  doing  in  the  East  End ;  I  think  he  would  understand 
quick  enough,  and  not  misjudge  us.  Mind,  I  will  confess  this; 
for  a  long  time  I  thought  he  was  merely  a  sentimental  sort  of 
person,  like — " 

"Like  me:  go  on," said  tlie  old  lady,  with  a  gracious  smile. 

"  No,  not  like  you  at  all,  but  like  the  people  who  are  delight- 


348  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ed  to  read  pathetic  stories  of  the  poor,  and  who  admire  kind- 
ness in  the  abstract,  but  who  wouldn't  forfeit  their  own  dinner 
to  keep  a  whole  household  from  starvation,  and  who  would 
shudder  with  hoi'i'or  if  they  were  asked  to  put  a  sponge  to  a 
child's  dirty  face.  Well,  we  all  make  mistakes,  I  suppose. 
Those  papers  showed  me  I  was  mistaken  about  him,  anyway. 
There  is  something  deeper  than  sentiment  in  his  nature.  And 
— and — "  continued  the  young  lady,  with  a  certain  embarrass- 
ment, for  she  seemed  to  become  conscious  that  she  had  been 
talking  very  frankly,  " — and  I  am  glad  he  is  going  away  from 
here — if  only  for  a  time;  for  I  was  uneasy  about  my  share  in 
his  coming;  and  if  he  were  once  away,  don't  you  see,  dear 
auntie,  he  could  decide  about  coming  back  or  not  just  as  he 
pleased,  and  that  would  be  his  own  doing.  Now  I  am  ready 
to  be  scolded." 

"  For  what,  then  ?" 

"Oh,  pei'haps  I  have  not  come  to  the  worst,"  said  the  peni- 
tent. "You  know  you  said  I  might  tell  him  of  your  kind 
intentions,  auntie;  and  he  was  very  grateful — no  wonder;  and 
even  astonished,  for  lie  asked  why  you  should  be  so  kind, 
whereupon  I  referred  him  to  the  philosophe'rs  who  can  explain 
why  the  sky  is  blue.  But  did  I  tell  you  how  interested  he 
seemed  when  I  told  him  all  that  is  going  on  down  there  in 
the  East  End  ?  Did  I  ?  Very  well ;  when  he  began  to  talk 
about  his  literary  prospects,  and  of  the  chance  of  his  gaining 
an  independent  position  that  way,  what  do  you  think  he  pro- 
posed?— to  give  me  a  contribution!" 

"After  five  hours'  talking,  what  less  could  he  do  ?  I  think 
you  deserved  it." 

"  But  his  contribution,  auntie  dear — always  with  your  con- 
sent, mind — he  said  he  should  like  to  be  Boat  of  Garry." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"He  meant  that — that,  if  you  didn't  mind,  auntie — he  would 
give  us  Boat  of  Garry,  or  what  it  might  fetch,  rather." 

"He  shall  not;  he  shall  not,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  deci- 
sion. "You  may  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  your  own  mon- 
ey, Mary;  but  no  one  shall  go  and  throw  away  my  poor 
Frank's  place  on  Shadwell  or  Stepney.  I  won't  hear  of  any 
such  thing." 

"But  if  you  say  not,  then  not  it  must  be,"  remarked  the 


PLANS   AND  DREAMS.  349 

young-  lady,  good-naturedly.  "Of  course  he  could  not  do 
such  a  thing  without  your  consent." 

' '  I  shall  not  allow  it.  Why,  the  idea !  Is  that  all  he  cares 
for  the  placft^" 

But  hei'e  Miss  Chetwynd  grew  alarmed.  She  knew  not 
what  mischief  she  might  not  have  done. 

"Auntie  dear,"  she  said,  with  some  eagerness,  "there  is  no 
use  to  say  another  word  about  it.  It  was  only  a  suggestion. 
I  think  he  deserves  credit  for  entertaining  such  a  generous 
fancy,  if  only  for  a  moment.  Would  you  find  many  young 
men — fond  of  riding  and  shooting  and  all  that — willing  to 
part  with  such  a  place  ?  And  the  idea  that  he  does  not  appre- 
ciate it,  or  recognize  its  beauties !  But  I  am  sure,  auntie  dear, 
you  would  not  be  the  one  to  stand  in  the  way  of  a  young  man 
making  a  great  i-eputation  for  himself?  And  that  is  why  I 
think  he  ought  to  go  away — at  least  for  a  time — and  establish 
himself  in  London.  Give  him  Boat  of  Garry,  by  all  means, 
auntie,  and  the  frame  of  the  picture  too ;  but  you  would  not 
make  the  conditions  too  rigox'ous;  you  could  not  expect  him 
to  remain  here  always;  no  doubt  he  would  be  glad  enough  to 
come  here  from  time  to  time — the  winter  shooting  he  says  is 
excellent." 

"Mary  Chetwynd,"  said  her  aunt,  with  a  severity  that  was 
in  great  part  assumed,  "you  are  trying  to  throw  me  off  the 
scent.  I  can  see  what  you  are  after.  You  wish  me  to  put 
Mr.  Fitzgerald  in  the  position  of  having  independent  means, 
with  no  occupation — " 

"I?  Was  it  you  or  I  wlio  proposed  that?"  said  the  young 
lady,  with  some  warmth. 

"Wait  a  moment:  I  see  your  scheme.  You  don't  impose 
upon  me,  miss.  Here  you  have  a  young  man  who  is  quick, 
intelligent,  of  a  genei^ous  disposition ;  and  of  course  when  he 
has  a  fair  allowance  of  money,  and  absolutely  nothing  to  do, 
isn't  he  the  very  person — even  supi^osing  that  he  is  not  allow- 
ed to  sell  Boat  of  Garry — to  be  carried  off  and  added  to  your 
Whitechapel  gang  ?  Oh,  I  see  the  whole  thing  cleai'ly  enough, 
though  my  eyes  are  not  as  good  as  they  once  Avere.  Here  you 
have  a  clever  young  man  for  your  lectures,  and  Whitechapel 
swallows  him  up ;  no  one  ever  sees  him  again ;  litei'ature  loses 
him,  and  Boat  of  Garry  is  left  empty  and  useless.     So  that  is 


350  SHANDON   BELLS. 

why  we  go  and  run  a  valuable  steam-yaclit  on  to  a  rock ;  and 
that  is  why  we  talk  for  five  hours ;  and  no  doubt  Whitechapel 
looks  rather  a  pretty  sort  of  place — in  a  distant  way — when 
you  have  a  smooth  blue  sea  and  picturesque  moifbtains  round 
you  ?" 

The  young  lady  flushed  slightly ;  but  she  retained  her  accus- 
tomed good-humor. 

"You  are  quite  mistaken,  auntie,"  said  she;  but  now  she 
spoke  in  a  lower  tone,  for  Fitzgerald  was  standing  on  the  lawn 
outside,  putting  the  pieces  of  his  rod  together.  "  Mr.  Fitzger- 
ald has  his  own  plans.  He  is  not  likely  to  be  led  by  either 
you  or  me.  If  either,  it  would  be  you,  naturally;  for  he  is 
greatly  indebted  to  you ;  whereas  he  and  I  are  practically 
strangei'S.  And  I  know  he  is  anxious  to  acquire  a  position  in 
literature;  and  I  should  not  wonder  if,  when  this  book  of  his 
comes  to  be  published,  it  were  to  make  him  quite  famous.  No, 
auntie,"  she  continued,  in  a  lighter  way,  for  Fitzgerald  had 
started  off,  "I  know  what  will  happen.  Your  kindness  will 
enable  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  write  just  in  the  way  that  suits  his 
own  bent;  he  will  be  under  no  anxiety  except  to  do  his  best 
work ;  and  of  course  he  will  be  grateful  to  you ;  and  you  will 
be  able  to  produce  him  at  your  dinner  table  as  your  own 
author.  Think  of  that!  You  will  have  him  all  to  yourself; 
you  alone  will  know  what  he  is  working  at;  a  real,  live,  dis- 
tinguished author  constantly  on  the  premises.  For  no  doubt 
you  will  ask  him  to  come  and  live  in  Hyde  Park  Gardens; 
and  then  you  can  get  a  study  for  him  by  turning  me  and  my 
nine-inch  telescope  out-of-doors.  Then  his  lordship,  when  he 
pleases,  will  come  over  here  to  shoot  wild-duck ;  and  perhaps, 
auntie  dear,  you  won't  mind  sending  me  a  brace  now  and 
again  to  my  lodgings  in  the  Mile-end  Road,  where  I  shall 
most  likely  be  starving,  after  having  sold  my  telescope  and 
my  last  pair  of  boots." 

"Go  away  and  tell  them  to  bring  tea,"  said  her  aunt, 
sharply ;  and  so  this  discussion  came  to  an  end. 

Meanwhile  the  object  of  all  this  diverse  speculation  was 
making  his  way  down  through  the  meadows  to  the  stream, 
his  long  rod  swaying  over  his  shoulder.  There  was  a  con- 
tented look  on  his  face  on  this  warm  and  pleasant  afternoon. 
The  neighborhood  of  Boat  of  Garry  seemed  much  more  cheer- 


PLANS  AND  DREAMS.  351 

ful  since  the  arrival  of  these  visitors.  And  yet  he  was  not 
paying  much  attention  to  the  things  around  him ;  rather  he 
was  amusing  himself  by  drawing  an  imaginary  picture  of  what 
his  life  would  have  been  liad  he  been  content  to  accept  Mrs. 
Chetwynd's  munificent  offer  in  its  simplicity.  He  was  think- 
ing of  himself  as  owner  of  Boat  of  Garry ;  living  a  quiet,  soli- 
tary, resigned  life ;  taking  what  care  of  the  place  he  could,  no 
matter  into  whose  hands  it  was  destined  ultimately  to  fall ; 
perhaps,  through  industrious  stewardship,  being  able  to  save 
something  to  send  to  Miss  Clietwynd's  charities;  and  then 
from  time  to  time,  in  this  peaceful  and  uneventful  existence, 
jotting  down  the  impressions  of  these  silent  hours,  and  so 
maintaining  a  sort  of  relationship  with  the  unknown  friends 
over  there  in  England  whom  he  should  never  see.  He  look- 
ed ahead,  and  beheld  himself  as  another  pei'son.  A  sensation 
of  being  middle-aged  came  over  him.  It  was  in  that  charac- 
ter, indeed,  that  he  had  written  the  "Occupations  of  a  Re- 
cluse." There  was  a  tone  in  them  as  of  the  thinking  of  one  for 
whom  the  eager  interests  of  life  were  over.  He  had  arx'ived 
at  the  stage  of  contemplation ;  the  phenomena  of  the  earth 
around  him  were  not  of  much  importance,  excex^t  in  so  far  as 
they  suggested  strange  fancies,  or  became  the  secret  friends 
and  confidants  of  his  solitary  walks  by  sea  and  shore. 

He  was  amusing  himself  with  this  fancy  of  what  his  life 
might  be.  There  was  the  possibility  ofl-ered  liim.  There  was 
no  need  for  him  to  liand  over  Boat  of  Garry  to  Miss  Chet- 
wynd's  charities;  more  than  that,  it  was  extremely  doubtful 
whether  Mrs.  Chetwynd  would  allow  Iiim.  Indeed,  so  busy 
was  he  with  this  dream  of  the  future  that  when  he  sat  down 
on  a  low  boundary  wall,  and  placed  his  rod  beside  him  against 
the  stones,  and  took  out  liis  fly-book,  he  kept  mechanically 
turning  over  the  leaves  and  straightening  here  and  tliere  a  bit 
of  feather  or  fur,  and  did  not  hear  the  footsteps  behind  him. 

It  was  the  boy  that  helped  Murtough  in  the  stables;  and  he 
brought  two  letters.  He  glanced  at  tlie  basket;  but  did  not 
venture  to  ask  his  honor  whether  he  liad  caught  anything; 
then  he  reluctantly  left. 

These  two  letters  made  Fitzgerald's  heart  beat,  and  caused 
his  imagination  to  be  fii-ed  with  far  other  dreams  than  that  of 
spending  an  idle  contemplative  life  out  of  the  world.      The 


352  SHANDON  BELLS. 

first  was  from  the  publisher  who  had  already  proposed  to  issue 
the  "Occupations"  in  a  volume;  and  who  now  put  his  ofPer  in 
definite  terms ;  a  considerable  sum — a  sum  that  Fitzgerald  had 
not  dreamed  of — to  be  paid  down,  with  a  royalty  on  each  copy 
after  a  certain  number  had  been  sold.  If  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
agreed,  would  he  proceed  with  the  revision  of  the  papers  foi'th- 
with  ?  And  did  he  happen  to  know  of  some  capable  artist  who, 
in  his  opinion,  would  be  a  fit  person  to  illustrate  the  book  ? 

"I  think  John  Ross  and  I  will  have  a  little  talk  about  this," 
he  said  to  himself. 

But  it  was  the  second  letter  that  he  read  and  re-read  with  far 
greater  gratification.  That  was  about  money ;  this  was  a  per- 
sonal triumph.     It  ran  as  follows : 

"Sloane  Street,  Wednesday. 
"My  dear  Sir, — You  may  remember  that  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  you  one  evening  at  Mr.  Hilton  Clax-ke's,  when  Mr. 
Scobell,  who  has  obligingly  given  me  your  address,  was  also 
present.  I  had  heard  a  rumor  to  the  effect  that  the  papers, 
'The  Occupations  of  a  Recluse,' were  by  a  Mr.  Fitzgerald;  but 
I  did  not  identify  the  name  with  yourself  until  I  accidentally 
met  Mr.  Scobell,  who  put  me  right.  It  has  since  occurred 
to  me  that  you  might  find  greater  freedom  as  to  choice  of 
subject  in  the  columns  of  a  weekly  paper;  although  I  must 
confess  that  Noel  appears  to  have  given  you  a  very  wide  discre- 
tion. His  boldness  has  been  justified;  the  papers  are  well 
spoken  of;  they  are  unusual;  they  have  the  touch  of  a  new 
hand.  Of  course  I  do  not  say.  Leave  the  Mirror  and  come  to 
the  Liberal  Revieiv;  I  do  not  consider  that  fair  journalism; 
but  many  of  the  writers  on  the  daily  papers  also  contribute  to 
the  weeklies;  and  I  merely  say  that  if  you  happen  to  have  an 
occasional  article  (you  might  find  yourself,  for  example,  with 
a  subject  which  would  be  somewhat  too  subtle  and  out-of-the- 
way  for  the  hurry  of  daily  newspaper  reading)  that  you  chose 
to  send  to  us,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  it ;  and  as  we  have  two 
rates  of  payment  for  different  kinds  of  matter,  I  should  be 
happy  to  put  you  on  the  most-favored-nation  scale. 

' '  Yours  faithfully,  G.  Gifford. 

"To  William  Fitzgei-ald,  Esq., 

"Boat  of  Garry,  by  Bantry,  Ireland." 


PLANS  AND  DREAMS.  353 

His  first,  quick,  proud  thought  was  that  he  would  walk 
straight  to  the  house  aud  show  this  letter  to  Mary  Chetwynd. 

But  why  to  her  ?  She  did  not  know  the  story.  There  was 
no  one  now  who  knew  the  story;  and  his  triumph  was  useless. 

He  regarded  these  letters.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that 
they  shadowed  forth  prospects  that  ought  to  have  been  allur- 
ing enough  to  a  young  man  of  literary  tendencies  and  aspira- 
tions. Indeed,  as  he  looked  at  them,  and  guessed  at  all  they 
hinted  at,  that  career  seemed  to  him  a  more  noble  and  useful 
one  than  hiding  himself  away  from  the  world  in  this  solitary 
place,  and  avoiding  the  cares  and  anxieties  and  victories  of 
life  altogether.  And  so  he  was  to  become  an  author  at  last — 
perhaps  even  one  who  might  win  in  some  small  measure  the 
affection  of  the  great  many-eyed,  and  many-hearted,  and  not 
ungrateful  pubUc  ?  And  to  write  for  the  Liberal  Review — 
that  seemed  almost  as  great  a  wonder:  not  standing,  as  of  old, 
at  the  foot  of  the  little  stair,  and  anxiously  awaiting  the  fate 
of  a  timid  essay  about  some  one  else's  work  ;  but  allowed  to 
mount  into  his  own  small  pulpit,  as  it  were,  and  deliver  forth 
his  own  utterances,  if  haply  one  here  or  there  cai-ed  to  listen  to 
a  whisper  from  the  hills  or  a  murmur  from  the  wide  seas  amid 
the  jangle  of  political  life.  It  seemed  a  wonderful  thing.  He 
could  scai'cely  rest.  He  wanted  to  be  away  and  begin  at  once. 
The  great  world  was  calling  him  from  these  still  solitudes;  the 
picture  was  opening  out  before  him;  to  what  possible  goal 
might  he  not  attain  ? 

And  then  somehow — as  a  sudden  sob  breaks  the  silence  of 
the  night,  and  the  hushed  and  hidden  grief  reveals  itself  and 
all  the  darkness  is  shuddering  with  the  old  and  ceaseless  pain 
— just  as  quickly  and  terribly  flashed  across  his  consciousness 
the  words  "Too  late!  too  late!"  The  time  for  these  brave 
dreams  was  over  now.  A  man  does  not  strive  but  toward  an 
end ;  does  not  fight  without  hojic  of  reward ;  does  not  strike 
for  a  great  future  if  it  is  for  himself  alone.  "Too  late!  too 
late !"  And  he  had  pretty  well  schooled  himself  by  this  time ; 
and  knew  when  it  was  time  to  give  up  tliinking;  and  was  as 
well  aware  as  any  one  of  the  stupidity  of  idle  regret.  So  he 
deliberately  and  calmly  put  in  his  ))ocket  the  letters,  and  chose 
with  patient  care  tlie  flics  he  wanted;  and  went  down  among 
the  tall  weeds  by  the  side  of  tlie  river.     It  was  a  pleasant  aft- 


354  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ei'iioon ;  the  water  was  in  good  condition  ;  lie  must  not  return 
to  the  house  without  a  sea-trout  for  dinner. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  exceeding  bad  luck.  The  stream 
abounded  with  small  river -trout  that  would  keep  playing  with 
the  big  sea-trout  flies,  occasionally  sufl'ering  for  their  folly  by 
finding  themselves  twitched  into  the  air  and  then  floundermg 
on  the  grass.  This  necessitated  his  fixing  the  rod  upright,  and 
going  and  getting  the  diminutive  beast  off  the  hook,  while 
there  was  every  probability  that  in  flopping  about  it  had  caught 
one  of  the  other  flies  in  the  weeds.  And  then  again  he  had  to 
be  careful  about  restoring  the  captive  to  its  native  element,  for 
the  flash  and  shoot  of  it  might  alarm  some  more  noble  fish. 
But  he  worked  away,  whipping  industriously  and  mechanical- 
ly, not  thinking  of  anything  in  particular  except  as  to  how  to 
get  the  flies  lightly  on  the  water,  himself  unseen,  and  how  to 
recover  them  without  catching  up  on  the  bank. 

At  last  there  was  a  sudden  "flop"  that  well  he  knew  the 
sound  of;  but  he  struck  too  quickly  or  too  sharply.  Again 
and  again  he  dexterously  dropped  the  flies  over  the  same  bit 
of  water,  but  there  was  no  response :  perhaps  the  flsh  had  been 
touched,  and  had  learned  caution.  He  was  beginning  to  think 
that  he  must  return  to  the  house  empty-handed,  when,  lower 
down,  there  was  another  "flop," instantly  followed  by  a  sharp 
whir  of  the  reel;  then  again  by  a  deliberate  "sulk,"  during 
which  time  he  rapidly  got  in  his  line  again,  keeping  on  all  the 
strain  he  dared.  He  was  now  in  an  excellent  position,  for  the 
flsh  had  taken  refuge  in  a  narrow  deep  little  pool  beyond  some 
gravelly  shallows,  and  as  it  was  at  a  bend  in  the  river,  he, 
standing  on  the  neck  of  land,  could  have  fair  command  of  the 
fish  whichever  way  he  went.  However,  he  now  knew  pretty 
well  how  many  and  how  various  were  the  accidents  possible  on 
this  little  stream,  where  there  was  no  chance  for  that  fine,  lei- 
surely playing  of  the  flsh  that  can  be  indulged  in  on  an  open 
loch  with  impunity;  and  so  he  kept  on  the  full  strain  of  his 
tackle,  ready  for  whatever  might  happen. 

He  had  very  little  trouble,  however.  The  fish  made  one  long 
rush  ui^  sti-eam,  but  fortunately  kept  almost  in  mid-channel. 
Then  it  leaped  out  of  the  water  twice,  but  without  doing  dam- 
age. Then  it  sulked  again;  but  it  was  evidently  growing 
weaker.     Finally,  after  one  or  two  slow,  quiet  sailings  up  and 


PLANS  AND  DREAMS.  355 

down,  it  allowed  itself  to  be  gently  guided  into  the  side,  where 
a  cautious  and  then  quick  swoop  of  the  landing-net  speedily 
deposited  it  on  the  gi'ass — a  beauty  of  a  sea-trout  of  apparently 
about  three  pounds  weight. 

"Well,  he  thought  that  was  quite  enough,  seeing  it  was  getting 
near  dinner-time ;  and  Mrs.  Chet\vymd  could  not  bear  unpunc- 
tuality;  while  of  course  he  had  to  excliauge  his  jacket  and 
knickerbockers  for  a  more  suitable  costume.  So  he  popped 
the  fish  into  the  basket,  and  was  striding  home  through  the 
meadows  that  led  up  to  the  house,  when  he  saw  Miss  Chet- 
wynd  coming  to  him  through  the  trees.  She  had  evidently 
been  expecting  him. 

"Have  you  caught  anything?"  she  said,  pleasantly. 

"A  fairish  sea-trout,"  he  said,  "about  three  pounds.  I  am 
afraid  it  won't  be  in  time  for  dmner." 

"It  won't,"  she  said.  "It  is  near  diimer-time  now.  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,"  she  added,  "  I  wanted  to  say  a  word  to  you  before 
going  in.  You  hinted  something  about  handing  over  Boat 
of  Garry  to  me,  to  help  these  various  things  of  mine.  It  was 
kind  of  you.  But  please  don't  even  mention  such  a  project 
to  auntie.  She  will  not  hear  of  it;  when  I  spoke  of  it  she  was 
very  nearly  being  angry  in  earnest;  and  that  does  not  often 
happen.  No;  you  must  take  Boat  of  Garry,  and  keep  to  her 
wishes ;  you  will  find  them  considerate  and  reasonable  enough. " 

"But  what  kind  of  use  could  I  put  it  to?"  said  he,  rather 
bewildered  at  the  moment. 

Tliey  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  and  the  house 
was  visible.     She  regarded  him  for  a  second. 

"That  is  hardly  for  me  to  say,"  she  said,  slowly.  "But  I 
think  if  you  were  to  take  Boat  of  Garry,  as  my  aunt  wishes  to 
give  it  to  you,  you  would  be  in  a  position  in  which  you  could 
do  a  great  deal  of  good  to  many,  many  people." 

He  could  not  stay  to  ask  her  to  explain,  even  if  she  were 
willing  to  explain ;  for  he  had  but  little  time  in  which  to  get 
ready  for  dinner.  During  that  brief  operation,  however,  some 
odd  fancies  occurred  to  him.  If  certain  things  were  now  no 
longer  possible  to  him  in  the  world,  inight  not  others  be? 
Was  it  so  necessary  to  human  happiness  that  life  should 
be  crowned  by  either  love  or  ambition  ?  Look  at  Mary  Chet- 
wynd,  now.     Her  life  seemed  valuable  enough  to  her  because 


356  SHANDON  BELXiS. 

she  could  make  it  valuable  to  others:  it  was  a  beautiful  life  in 
its  sweet  serenity,  its  cheerfulness,  its  atmosphere  of  frankness 
and  kindness  and  content.  Her  philosophy  was  perhaps  not 
very  profound ;  but  at  least  it  was  practical :  ' '  We  enjoy  such 
things  as  we  have  through  the  best  people  having  done  their 
best :  let  us  try  and  do  the  same ;  and  make  the  lives  of  those 
who  have  been  borne  down  in  the  struggle  a  little  more  toler- 
able." It  was  impossible  to  imagine  a  happier  human  being 
than  she  seemed  to  be ;  fitting  accui'ately  and  easily  into  her 
surroundings;  full  of  cares  that  were  scarcely  anxieties;  sat- 
isfied with  her  place  in  the  world;  a  dispenser  of  light.  It 
seemed  strange  for  this  king's  daughter  to  spend  the  best  part 
of  her  life  in  Whitechapel ;  but  pei'haps  she  could  not  be  just 
quite  what  she  was  if  she  did  otherwise.  At  all  events  she 
had  found  out  something.  That  perfect  serenity  of  content 
could  not  be  the  fruit  merely  of  nature  and  disposition ;  it 
must  be  the  outcome  of  nature  and  disposition  finding  fitting 
work  and  occupation.  And  if  a  woman's  instinct  had  found 
out  a  way  of  living  which  seemed  to  make  the  world  around 
her  (in  the  eyes  of  all  beholders)  more  sweet  and  cheerful  and 
wholesome,  might  it  not  be  worth  while  inquiring  what  that 
was? 

Now  no  sooner  had  they  sat  down  to  dinner  than  the  old 
lady,  with  a  trifle  of  enforced  gayety  to  hide  a  certain  nervous- 
ness, began  to  unfold  to  him  her  designs. 

' '  Mary  and  I  have  been  having  a  dreadful  quai'rel  about 
you,"  she  said. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  was  his  answer.  "But  it  does  not 
appear  as  if  much  hai'ra  had  been  done." 

"You  must  know  that  Mary  and  I  have  been  sketching  out 
a  career  for  you — only  with  a  difference — and  drawing  out 
plans.  Of  course  the  time  is  very  appropriate ;  for  one  might 
almost  regard  you  as  making  a  new  start  in  life—" 

"I?"  said  he,  in  great  alarm.  Had  she  guessed,  then,  of 
that  mortal  crisis  through  which  he  had  come,  when  the  value 
seemed  to  go  out  of  life  altogether,  and  death  to  take  its  place 
as  the  more  desirable  thing  ? 

"Yes:  with  all  the  people  talking  about  the  new  writer.  Of 
course  you  will  be  quite  a  difi'erent  person  when  you  return 
to  London.     Do  you  think  when  you  become  great  and  fa- 


PLANS  AND  DREAMS.  357 

mous,  that  we  shall  expect  you  to  come  and  read  accounts  of 
murders  to  a  poor  old  blind  woman  ?'' 

"Indeed,  I  am  not  likely  to  become  great  and  famous,"  he 
said,  honestly  enough.  "  But  I  should  like  to  earn  my  living 
by  literature.  And  I  think  I  might  be  able  to  do  that;  I  have 
just  had  two  letters  that  give  me  good  hope.  But  do  you  think 
that  is  any  reason  why  I  should  prove  myself  ungrateful  for 
all  your  kindness  ?  I  may  be  able  to  earn  my  living  at  litera- 
ture, as  I  say ;  and  then  I  would  not  ask  you  for  the  salary 
you  have  been  kind  enough  to  give  me — you  might  hand  it 
over  to  Miss  Chetwynd  for  her  charities;  but  that  need  not 
prevent  my  coming  to  read  to  you  each  afternoon  just  as  be- 
fore, if  you  will  allow  me.  For  I  know,"  he  added,  more  light- 
ly, ' '  precisely  what  you  like  in  the  way  of  literature  and  news ; 
and  I  would  not  hand  you  over  to  your  niece  again,  who  Avould 
make  you  believe  that  the  magazines  and  newspapers  contain- 
ed nothing  but  reports  of  Sanitary  Commissions  and  things  like 
that—" 

"Now  I  call  that  too  bad," said  Mary  Chetwynd.  "I  read 
to  auntie  for  years,  and  never  got  '  Thank  you' ;  you  read  for 
a  few  months,  and  she  gives  you  Boat  of  Garry !  And  then  to 
have  insult  heaped  upon  me  as  well — " 

"But,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  with 
some  little  agitation,  "you  speak  of  handing  over  something 
to  Mary's  charities.  And  Mary  said  you  had  made  some  sug- 
gestion. Now  you  must  understand  this — do  not  think  I  am 
unreasonable — but  you  must  really  understand  that  any  pro- 
posal of  that  kind  with  regard  to  Boat  of  Garry  is  out  of  the 
question.  I  will  give  you  the  place.  I  will  give  you  enough 
to  keep  it  up,  and  a  surplus  for  your  own  expenses.  But  either 
let  or  sold  or  mortgaged  Boat  of  Gai-ry  shall  not  be." 

"But,  auntie  dear,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  in  her  soft,  per- 
suasive voice,  "Mr.  Fitzgerald  undei-stands  that.  I  told  liim. 
It  was  only  a  chance  suggestion  of  liis — generous  but  imprac- 
ticable. You  need  not  worry  yourself  about  it,  more  especial- 
ly as  j'-ou  can  easily  put  it  out  of  the  power  of  any  one  to  sell 
the  place.  Only  I  would  not  have  you  make  any  one  a  present 
with  any  doubt  remaining  in  your  mind.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  won't 
sell  Boat  of  Garry.". 

"If  it  were  handed  over  to  me  like  that."  said  he,  simply 


358  SHANDON  BELLS. 

enough,  "surely  I  could  not  do  less  than  consider  I  held  it  on 
trust.  It  should  be  done  with  entirely  and  merely  as  you 
wished." 

"I  would  rather  make  it  binding  on  your  honor  than  leave 
it  to  the  lawyers,''  said  she,  in  a  calmer  way.  "And  what  I 
should  like  would  be  to  have  the  place  kept  exactly  as  it  is,  and 
to  be  well  looked  after,  so  that  if  you  should  at  auy  time  think 
of  asking  us  to  come  and  look  at  it,  it  would  be  really  coming 
to  the  old  place  again,  and  seeing  it  just  as  it  was  when — when 
my  poor  boy  was  so  proud  of  it.  For  why  should  you  not  be 
proud  of  it  too?     It  is  a  pretty  place — " 

' '  Mrs.  Chetwynd, "  said  he,  ' '  you  speak  as  if  something  were 
needed  to  make  your  splendid  offer  acceptable  to  me.  I  don't 
think  you  can  understand  what  it  is  to  a  young  fellow  of  my 
age  to  be  made  independent — for  that  is  what  it  would  come  to ; 
to  have  his  jjlace  in  the  world  made  sure  for  him,  and  that 
place  a  most  atti*active  one.  I  have  been  near  starvation  once 
or  twice — and  not  so  long  ago.  And  now  you  offer  me  an 
assured  income,  and  all  kinds  of  luxuries,  and  yet  you  imagine 
that  I  don't  quite  appreciate  your  kindness,  or  might  be  so 
ungrateful  as  to  do  with  the  property  something  not  accord- 
ing to  your  wishes.     I  don't  think  you  need  have  much  fear." 

"I  will  trust  to  your  honor,  and  not  to  the  lawy'ers,"  she 
said.  "I  will  make  no  conditions  when  the  transference  is 
drawn  out.  I  won't  ask  you  to  take  our  name,  as  I  had 
thought  of  doing;  it  will  be  enough  if  you  do  what  I  want 
with  the  place.  And  if  the  money  is  not  enough,  there  will  be 
more.  But  about  the  name :  I  will  ask  you  to  let  me  call  you 
Willie  when  you  come  to  see  us  in  London — if  you  do  not 
mind." 

"  Oh  no;  it  is  onl}^  another  part  of  your  kindness," 

"  It  is  a  bargain,  then  ?" 

"  If  you  wish  it  to  be,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  he  was  saying,  rather 
doubtfully,  for  he  was  wondering  whether  she  would  always 
approve  of  what  she  had  done,  and  perhaps  was  thinking  of 
asking  her  to  take  time  to  reflect.  But  he  caught  the  look  of 
Mary  Chetwynd's  face.  There  was  a  touch  of  surprise  there — 
almost  of  reproach.  She  seemed  to  say,  "Why  do  you  hesi- 
tate ?  Is  that  the  way  to  accept  such  a  gift  ?"  So  he  only 
said,  "  If  I  only  knew  how  to  thank  you !" 


PLANS  AND  DREAMS.  359 

"Never  mind  that," said  the  old  lady,  good-naturedly.  ' '  It 
is  a  bargain,  then  ?     Shake  hands  on  it !" 

So  he  rose  and  went  round,  and  they  shook  hands  to  seal  the 
covenant,  as  it  were;  and  then  he  kissed  her  hand  in  mute 
token  of  gratitude,  and  went  back  to  his  seat.  The  ceremony 
was  a  brief  one ;  but  after  that  she  never  expressed  any  anxiety 
as  to  what  might  become  of  Boat  of  Garry. 

"And  now  about  youi'self — "  She  hesitated  for  a  second, 
and  flushed  a  little.  Evidently  she  had  tried  to  call  him 
"Willie,"  and  had  failed.  "Tell  me  what  your  plans  are. 
Mary  says  you  would  like  to  go  back  to  London." 

"I  was  thinking  I  should  like  to  get  back  for  a  short  time; 
but  it  is  of  little  consequence ;  I  will  remain  here  if  you  pre- 
fer it." 

"Oh,  but  that  won't  do  at  all.  I  did  not  buy  you  into  slav- 
ery like  that.  The  landlord  of  Boat  of  Garry  must  do  as  he 
pleases.     You  shall  go  back  to  London  to-morrow  if  you  wish." 

"  I  could  not  do  that  either," said  he,  with  a  smile.  "For  I 
was  thinking,  if  you  did  not  object,  I  would  ask  my  artist 
friend  John  Ross  to  come  over  here  and  make  some  sketches. 
They  talk  of  putting  illustrations  into  the  volume  they  are  go- 
ing to  publish  for  me;  and  if  Mr.  Ross  were  to  come  to  Boat 
of  Garry — I  mean  if  you  didn't  mind  it — I  could  show  him 
where  to  make  his  sketches,  and  I  suppose  they  could  transform 
them  into  wood-cuts." 

"Bless  the  boy!"  the  old  lady  said,  with  her  pretty  laugh. 
"Is  he  asking  for  permission  to  invite  a  man  to  come  to  his 
own  house  ?" 

"He  is  rather  a  wild  sort  of  colt,  and  not  easily  led,"  Fitzger- 
ald said,  doubtfully. 

"For  my  part,"  said  Mary  Chetwynd,  who  had  not  spoken 
for  some  time,  "whoever  goes  back,  I  must,  very  soon." 

"  Mary,  there  is  not  a  soul  in  London  !"  her  aunt  exclaimed. 

"Is  there  not,  auntie?  I  can  assure  you  that  my  friends 
about  the  Mile-end  Road  don't  go  to  Biarritz  or  Mentone — not 
as  a  rule." 

"Why,  now,  I  wanted  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  go  back  with  us — 
after  a  little  while — just  to  have  everything  put  straight — " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  waiting  here  for  a  little  while  yet,"  Mary 
Chetwynd  said  at  once.     "  I  think  T  have  earned  a  little  longer 


360  SHANDON  BELLS. 

holiday;  and  as  for  you,  auntie,  as  you  ai'e  a  good-for-nothing, 
it  does  not  matter  where  you  are." 

"And  I  thought  we  might  make  the  homeward  journey  in 
part  a  driving  excursion^going  round  by  way  of  Killarney. 
Wouldn't  that  be  charming  ?" 

"Killarney  ?"  said  Fitzgerald,  with  a  quick  catching  of  the 
breath.     And  he  could  only  add:   "  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"Don't  you?"  she  said,  regarding  him  with  astonishment. 
"  Have  you,  an  Irishman,  anything  to  say  against  Killarney  ?" 

"Oh  no,"  he  said,  rather  under  his  breath.  And  then  he 
stammered :  "  No  doubt  Killarney  is  very  pretty — oh  yes,  pret- 
ty enough.  But — but  it  is  scarcely  anything  more,  is  it  ? 
Perhaps  I  am  not  just  to  it.  But  I  don't  care  about  fresh-wa- 
ter lakes — the  mysterious  association  of  the  sea  is  so  wonderful 
a  thing.  Do — do  you  really  think  it  would  be  worth  while 
taking  all  the  time  to  drive  round  by  Killarney  ?" 

"Then  what  do  you  say  to  Inisheen  ?" 

She  did  not  notice  that  the  blood  forsook  his  face  for  a  sec- 
ond.    But  Mary  Chetwynd  noticed  it,  and  said,  quickly : 

' '  Auntie,  I  declare  to  you  I  am  not  going  to  waste  my  time 
in  driving  excursions.  These  are  for  idle  people.  And  Dan 
and  Wellington  always  get  fidgety  when  they  are  put  up  in 
strange  stables:  do  you  mean  to  have  our  necks  broken ?" 

' '  My  dear,  I  wanted  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  show  us  some  of  the 
wonderful  places  he  has  described — " 

"But  you  can  see  them  all  around  here,"  said  her  niece. 
' '  There  is  far  more  of  Boat  of  Garry  than  of  Inisheen — if  it  is 
Inisheen — in  the  papers.  And  what  we  ought  to  do  is  to  give 
all  the  time  we  can  spare  to  Mr.  Ross,  so  that  we  shall  have 
Boat  of  Garry  glorified  and  made  as  famous  as  the  book  is 
sure  to  be.  So  I,  for  one,  vote  against  both  Killarney  and  In- 
isheen ;  those  on  the  other  side  may  hold  their  right  hands — 
their  right  hand — up." 

"Well,  you  always  have  your  own  way,  Maiy,"  her  aunt 
said,  contentedly. 

' '  And  indeed,  auntie,  you  have  not  yet  asked  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
whether  he  would  prefer  to  go  with  us  or  rather  choose  his 
own  time.  It  isn't  every  one  who  cai*es  to  go  travelling  with 
women.  Now  what  I  consider  would  be  the  reasonable  and 
sensible  plan  would  be  this — " 


PLANS  AND   DREAMS.  361 

"Whatever  agrees  with  your  own  wishes,  Mary,  is  always 
the  reasonable  and  sensible  plan,"  said  her  aunt,  with  a  smile. 

"Well,  but  listen.  The  opposition  can  hold  up  its  right 
laand  when  the  proper  time  comes.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  ought  to 
go  back  to  London  shortly  to  arrange  about  his  literary  affairs 
there.  I  must  go  back,  for  there  are  too  many  of  us  away  at 
this  time  of  year.  Now  we  will  assume  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
will  either  be,  or  pretend  to  be,  content  to  be  burdened  witli 
us  two  women,  and  take  our  tickets  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and 
get  grumbled  at  if  we  lose  anything;  and  so  what  I  say  is,  let 
us  hav^e  a  little  longer  holiday  here,  not  bothering  about  any 
Killarney  or  Inisheen ;  then  let  us  all  go  back  to  London ; 
then  let  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  when  his  affairs  there  are  put  in  pro- 
per train,  come  back  here,  along  with  Mr.  Ross,  for  the  shoot- 
ing.    What  a  pity  it  would  be  to  miss  the  shooting — " 

"  Well,  you  are  I'ight  there,  Maiy,"  said  the  old  lady,  eager- 
ly; for  was  she  not  anxious  that  Fitzgerald  should  appreciate 
all  the  advantages  of  the  place  she  had  given  him  ? 

"And  of  what  use  are  women  in  a  house  at  such  a  time? 
After  a  hard  day  on  the  hill,  the  men  always  go  to  sleep  after 
dinner.  Then,  according  to  my  plan,  there  would  be  no  hur- 
ry ;  and  Mr.  Ross  could  do  his  sketches  at  his  own  leisure,  and 
do  justice  to  tlie  scenery;  and  we  should  all  be  very  pleased  to 
have  such  a  nice  souvenir  of  the  place.  For  who  knows  what 
turn  affairs  may  take,  and  who  knows  whether  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
may  be  inclined  to  ask  us  ever  again  to  visit  Boat  of  Garry  ? 
I  was  going  to  suggest  that  he  might  invite  us  for  Christmas; 
but  Christmas  is  too  busy  a  time  with  me." 

"I  was  going  to  say,  Mrs.  Chetwynd,"  said  Fitzgerald,  wlio 
had  been  sitting  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  table — and  he  spoke 
rather  slowly,  and  with  a  trifle  of  embarrassment — "that  if 
you  would  prefer  driving  round  by  Killarney,  I  should  be  most 
liappy  to  go  that  way  with  you;  and  to  Inisheen  also,  if  you 
wished  it." 

"Oh,  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair,"  the  cheerful  old 
lady  said.  "  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  ai'ranges  ev- 
erything. Settle  it  between  you.  I  am  nothing  but  a  doll  in- 
her  hands." 

"  But  then  you  are  such  a  pretty  doll,  auntie  dear,"  her  niece 
said,  "and  such  a  gentle  and  well-behaved  doll,  I  have  never 

16 


362  SHANDON  BELLS. 

the  least  trouble  with  you.  Now  come  outside,  before  it  gets 
too  dark,  and  we  will  have  coffee  thei*e.  All  the  evening 
sounds  are  so  soft  and  quiet  just  before  the  night  comes  on ; 
and  you  will  have  a  thick  shawl  wrapped  round  your  head 
and  shoulders,  auntie ;  and  we  will  wait  for  the  new  moon,  and 
turn  over  all  the  silver  in  our  pockets.  Poor  old  Boat  of  Gar- 
ry— it  has  gone  away  into  the  hands  of  strangers;  but  we  will 
have  one  more  quiet  evening  outside  the  porch,  listening  to 
the  stream,  until  the  moon  comes  up  behind  the  acacia,  and 
then  it  will  be  time  to  get  in-dooi'S  again." 

It  was  a  peaceful  night — a  night  to  be  remembered.  To  one 
of  them  there  it  seemed  as  if  some  haven  might  be  reached, 
after  all — of  content,  and  affection,  and  gratitude.  The  dark- 
ness gathered  over  hill  and  shore ;  the  moon  rose  into  the  clear 
heavens  behind  the  trembling  acacia  leaves;  the  stream  mur- 
mured down  there  beyond  the  lawn ;  the  air  was  soft  from  tlie 
sea.  A  gracious  night.  There  was  hardly  any  need  for 
speaking ;  it  was  enough  to  sit  and  watch  the  moon  slowly 
rise,  and  the  faint  light  tell  on  the  grass  and  the  gravel.  Then 
there  was  a  stirring  of  leaves  around,  and  the  air  felt  colder. 
It  was  with  something  of  a  sigh  that  they  got  up,  and  took 
their  things  witli  them,  and  went  in-doors,  leaving  the  slum- 
bering world  and  the  scarcely  breathing  sea  to  the  silence  and 
the  stars. 

When  Fitzgerald  went  up  to  his  room  later  on,  after  having 
bade  them  good-night,  and  also  having  made  another  sort  of 
effort  to  let  the  old  lady  know  that  he  was  fully  sensible  of 
her  great  generosity  toward  him,  he  found  a  half -sheet  of  note- 
paper  placed  somewhat  prominently  on  the  dressing-table,  and 
at  the  first  glance  he  recognized  tlie  clear,  i)retty  handwriting 
to  be  that  of  Mary  Chetwynd.  There  was  no  message  or  ex- 
planation, only  these  words:  ^^ I  hereby  promise  to  contribute 
tiventy  pounds  a  year  to  the  fund  for  providing  toys  for 
hospital  children.''^ 

Well,  he  sat  down  and  contemplated  these  words,  knowing 
very  well  what  they  meant.  It  was  an  invitation  to  him  to 
•  give  to  those  poor  children  some  small  portion  of  the  bounties 
that  had  been  heaped  on  him.  And  the  more  he  thought  of  it, 
the  more  he  was  convinced  that  it  would  be  a  very  strange 
thing  if  his  literary  efforts  could  not  produce  a  yearly  suna  as 


THE  BOOK.  363 

great  as  that,  or  even  considerably  greater.  As  for  the  mone- 
tary arrangements  that  Mi*s.  Chetwynd  might  be  disposed  to 
make,  he  knew  nothing  about  them  as  yet ;  but  he  understood 
that  i^ractically  he  was  to  have  an  income  that  would  render 
him  independent.  Surely,  then,  literature  might  enable  him 
to  do  as  much  as  this,  or  more  ?  So  he  went  and  got  a  pen, 
and  scored  out  the  word  "ftt'en^?/,"  and  insei'ted  the  word 
"_^/f?/,"  adding  his  signature  in  full — William  Fitzgerald. 
And  then  he  inclosed  this  document  in  an  envelope,  which  he 
addressed  to  Miss  Chetwynd,  thinking  he  would  leave  it  on  the 
breakfast  table  for  her  in.  the  morning,  without  another  word. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  BOOK. 

Well,  in  due  course  of  time — that  is  to  say,  about  the  end  of 
October — the  original  "Occupations  of  a  Recluse,"  along  with 
numerous  additions,  and  with  a  series  of  illustrations  taken 
from  sepia  drawings  by  John  Ross,  were  given  to  the  public 
in  book  form,  and  almost  instantly  commanded  a  very  large 
sale  indeed,  and  were  widely  talked  of.  The  publishers  hap- 
pened to  be  masters  of  the  art  of  doing  a  good  thing  well,  and 
had  spared  neither  trouble  nor  cost  in  getting  these  sepia 
drawings  transformed  into  a  set  of  admirable  wood-cuts,  Avhile 
many  people  who  had  read  the  "Occupations"  in  a  fugitive 
way  as  they  appeared  in  the  Daily  Mirror  were  glad  to  have 
them  in  tliis  permanent  form.  Moreover,  the  reviewers  re- 
ceived the  book  favorably,  although  one  or  two  rather  com- 
plainingly  asked  how  they  could  be  expected  to  classify  this 
amorphous  hotch-potch  of  philosophy,  poetry,  and  snipe-shoot- 
ing, as  if  there  were  any  necessity  tliat  they  should  classify  it 
at  all ;  while  the  Liberal  Review  said  that,  although  the  writer 
of  these  papers  was  a  contributor  to  their  own  columns  (editors 
are  but  human,  and  can  not  avoid  these  little  touches),  they 
did  not  see  that  was  any  reason  why  tlioy  should  not  praise 
good  work  when  tliey  found  it.  And  wlicn  tlie  Liberal  Rev ieiv 
people  set  about  praising  a  book,  they  do  it. 

In   the  circumstances   it  was  not  likely  that  Mr.  Scol)oll 


36-i  SHANDON  BELLS. 

should  miss  his  opportunity,  and  forthwith  he  made  his  way 
down  to  the  Fulham  Road.  Fitzgerald  still  occujjied  the  long 
low-i*oofed  room  there,  for  the  sake  of  auld  lang  syne ;  but  now 
there  was  a  heavy  portiere  shutting  off  the  bedroom  end,  and 
there  were  some  comfortable  chairs,  and  more  cheerful-look- 
ing rugs,  while  over  the  fire-place  stood  two  brilliant  Chanak- 
Kalesi  jugs  that  Miss  Chetwynd  had  given  him,  and  that  were 
the  sole  ornament  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Chetwynd,  indeed,  had 
begged  of  him  to  take  some  better  rooms  in  one  of  the  streets 
leading  from  Piccadilly,  but  he  asked  to  be  excused,  for  he  had 
no  mind  to  spend  much  money  on  himself.  In  fact,  he  was 
living  pretty  much  in  his  old  way  ;  although,  on  one  occasion, 
when  both  aunt  and  niece  went  down  to  his  humble  lodging 
to  have  afternoon  tea,  he  went  to  the  extravagance  befoi'ehand 
of  purchasing  a  modern  Japanese  tea  set  and  a  few  pots  of 
flowers.  It  was  then  that  Miss  Chetwynd  said  the  room  look- 
ed far  too  bare,  and  promised  him  the  two  green  and  scarlet 
jugs. 

"My  dear  f'lah,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  laying  his  hat  and  cane 
on  the  table,  and  taking  off  his  yellow  gloves,  "  let  me  con- 
gratulate you!  You  have  done  it  at  a  bound — at  a  bound. 
It  is  the  only  book  talked  of  at  every  dinner  table  you  go  to. 
By  Jove,  sir,  when  I  told  them  last  night  at  Lady  Lampley's 
that  I  knew  every  inch  of  your  career,  I  found  everybody  list- 
ening. And  I  knew  it ;  I  predicted  it ;  I  said  so  to  Gifford.  I 
said  to  him  when  I  met  him,  '  Gifford,  my  dear  f'lah,  you 
don't  know  what  people  are  talking  about;  you  are  in  your 
own  set.  You  keep  among  a  literary  set,  and  don't  know 
what  society  is  talking  about.  Why  don't  you  get  Fitzgerald 
to  write  for  you  ?  Why  should  he  write  only  for  the  Mirror 
— a  trades'-union,  Methodistical,  Republican  rag  like  that  V 
Not  that  I  approve  of  the  politics  of  the  Liberal  Revieiv  either ; 
you  can't  expect  me ;  but  what  I  say  is  that  the  Liberal  Review 
is  a  gentlemanly  sort  of  paper,  after  all ;  you  see  it  in  good 
houses;  when  I  go  into  my  club  I  find  it  lying  about." 

All  this  while  he  was  looking  around. 

"My  dear  f'lah,  this  won't  do  at  all.  When  a  penniless, 
supercilious  good-for-nothing  like  that  fellow  Hilton  Clarke 
sticks  himself  up  in  the  Albany — " 

"  Poor  chap,  he  is  no  longer  in  the  Albany." 


THE   BOOK.  365 

" — I  say,  why  should  you  be  living  in  a  bunk  like  this? 
Damme,  sir,  you  should  have  rooms  in  Curzon  Street,  and  a 
private  hansom,  and  a  hack  for  the  Park !  I  am  told  that  Mrs. 
Chetwynd  makes  you  a  very  handsome  allowance." 

"She  does.  But,  you  know,  literature  is  best  cultivated  on 
a  little  oatmeal.  And  I  find  enough  to  do  with  my  spare  cash 
in  another  way." 

"Oh,  but,  my  dear  f'lah,"  said  Mr.  Scobell,  with  a  lofty 
smile,  "  you  are  throwing  away  your  chances.  You  might  go 
everywhere — you  might  go  to  the  very  best  houses.  I'll  tell 
you  what,  now — my  wife  shall  send  you  a  card  for  one  of  her 
At  Homes;  and  you  ought  really  to  come,  don't  you  know; 
you'll  meet  some  of  the  very  best  people,  I  give  you  my  Avoi*d. 
What's  more,  I  want  you,  like  a  good  f'lah,  to  give  me  a  night 
for  a  little  dinner  at  my  club.  It  isn't  a  big  club;  it  isn't  one 
of  the  big  swell  clubs,  isn't  the  Abercorn ;  but  you'll  meet  a 
very  good  class  of  men  there,  I  can  tell  you.  And  I'll  ask  old 
Gifford,  if  you  like,  and  anybody  else  you  like,  and  we'll  have 
a  little  bit  of  a  celebration,  don't  you  know;  for  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Fitzgerald,  old  f'lah,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  had  a  finger 
in  the  pie,  don't  you  know,  and — and  damme  if  I'm  not  proud 
of  it,  and  precious  glad  that  you've  made  such  a  hit!" 

There  was  really  some  frank  good-nature  mixed  up  with  the 
man's  vanity.     He  took  out  his  note-book. 

"What  night  shall  it  be  ?"  he  said.  "Let  it  be  a  Staurday, 
the  15th  or  the  22d,  and  we'll  have  a  house-dinner;  and  you'll 
see  if  the  Abercorn  can't  give  you  as  good  a  dinner  and  as  good 
a  glass  of  wine  as  any  club  in  London." 

"  Either  night  you  like,  then." 

"We'll  say  the  22d,  to  give  more  time.  What  I  say  is,  do  a 
thing  well.     A  man  has  no  right  to  ask  me  to  dine  at  his  club, 

and  give  me  the  sort  of  dinner  you'd  get  at  a  common 

restaurant.  Wlien  I  ask  a  man  to  my  club  I  want  liim  to  have 
tlie  best  that's  in  the  kitchen  and  llie  cellar  ;  and  I'm  not  above 
taking  trouble  about  it.  What  I  say  is,  do  tlie  thing  well. 
There's  a  lot  of  people,  don't  you  know,  nowadays,  who  pre- 
tend to  be  above  all  that;  being  jiarticular  about  good  dinners 
and  good  wines  and  good  cigars  is  beneath  their  high  mighti- 
nesses' notice;  they  pretend  they  prefer  water  to  a  claret  that 
cost  you  a  hundred  shillings  a  dozen.     Rubbish— all  rubbish. 


366  SHANDON   BELLS. 

What  I  say  is,  the  good  things  of  this  life  wouldn't  be  there  if 
they  weren't  to  be  used ;  and  I  suppose  Providence  knows  as 
much  about  what's  good  for  you  as  any  of  the  scientific  swells. 
There's  a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of  nonsense  goes  on  at  the 
Chetwynds';  but  the  Chetwynds  are  not  in  fault.  Upon  my 
soul,  I  don't  think  it's  respectful  to  your  hostess  to  nibble  a  bit 
of  bread  and  a  cutlet,  and  drink  a  glass  of  water,  and  call  that 
your  dinner;  I  don't  think  it's  nice;  I  call  it  bad  form,  I  do;  if 
any  fellow  did  that  at  my  table,  I'm  hanged  if  he'd  find  him- 
self there  again.     The  22d,  seven  forty-five,  good." 

Tliis  was  the  true  object  of  his  visit;  and  he  clasped  his  note- 
book together  again  with  a  satisfied  air.  Then  he  took  up  his 
hat  and  gloves. 

"You  made  a  suggestion — you  were  kind  enough — "  said 
Fitzgerald,  timidly.  And  then  he  frankly  said,  ' '  I  wish  you 
would  ask  my  friend  Ross  too,  who  made  the  sketches,  you 
know." 

' '  Delighted !  My  dear  f 'lali,  a  thousand  thanks  for  the  hint. 
Delighted !" 

He  took  out  his  note-book  again. 

"  Give  me  his  address,  and  I  will  write  to  him  at  once.  De- 
lighted, I  assure  you.  A  deuced  clever  fellow  that ;  the  land- 
scapes Mrs.  Chetwynd  has  of  his  are  excellent — I  call  them 
first-rate." 

"But  he  lives  just  below,"  Fitzgerald  said,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  And  he  will  probably  be  at  work  now.  Will  you  go 
down  and  see  him  ?" 

"By  all  means." 

Tliey  went  down  the  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  tlid 
studio,  and  were  admitted,  apologizing  for  their  intrusion. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  John  Ross,  who  had  his  pipe  in  his  fingers. 
"  Come  in.  I  was  painting  the  portrait  of  the  collie  there,  and 
he's  not  a  good  sitter ;  he  was  continually  falling  asleep,  and  I 
got  tired  o'  whistling  the  poor  creature  awake,  and  was  having 
a  glint  at  the  newspaper." 

Mr.  Scobell  looked  strangely  around  at  the  big,  hollow- 
sounding  studio.  And  then,  with  much  roundabout  phraseol- 
ogy and  compliment,  he  explained  the  object  of  his  visit; 
Ross's  reply  being  briefly, 

"Yes,  I  will." 


THE  BOOK.  367 

But  Mr.  Scobell  did  not  stop  there.  He  began  to  make  a 
round  of  the  studio,  and  to  offer  remarks ;  while  John  Ross  be- 
came a  trifle  peevish. 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Mr.  Ross,"  said  he,  in  his 
grand  manner.  ''I  don't  see  that  an  artist  who  can  paint  like 
that  should  not  be  known.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do;  I'll  ask 
Sydenham  to  come  to  this  very  dinner." 

Mr.  Sj^denham  was  a  very  distinguished  painter  and  Aca- 
demician ;  the  husband,  indeed,  of  the  lady  whom  Fitzgerald 
had  on  one  occasion  taken  down  to  supper,  and  who  had  polite- 
ly declined  to  be  bribed  by  sandwiches. 

"Sydenham's  a  good  fellow,  a  deuced  good  fellow;  and  a 
word  fi'om  him  would  do  you  no  harm.  Now  that  is  a  mistake 
of  so  many  of  you  artists  and  authors,  don't  you  know ;  you 
keep  hidden  away  among  yourselves,  and  you  don't  go  about 
and  get  to  know  the  people  you  ought  to  know.  I  dare  say, 
now,  you  never  met  an  Academician  in  your  life  ?" 

"The  Academy  and  I  are  not  likely  to  become  great 
friends,''  said  Ross,  dryly.  "I  am  a  heretic.  I  will  not  con- 
form. I  like  to  paint  in  my  own  fashion,  and  they  let  me; 
and  they  go  their  way,  and  I  go  mine,  and  there  is  no  quarrel 
between  us.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  but  that  they  try  to  do  me  a 
favor  when  they  put  anything  I  send  them  near  the  roof — the 
effect  of  distance,  ye  see,  may  soften  the  things  down  a  bit." 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say,  now, "  remarked  Mr.  Scobell, 
coming  to  a  dead  pause  before  a  rough  sketch  that  was  propped 
up  on  the  mantel-piece— a  very  rough  sketch,  indeed,  of  a  farm- 
yard, with  one  or  two  cattle  and  a  heap  of  straw  warm  in  sun- 
light, "  that  they  would  not  give  a  good  place  to  a  picture  like 
that  ?  Now  I  call  that  uncommonly  good.  I  have  seen  a 
good  many  pictures  in  my  time.  I  have  been  to  half  the  gal- 
leries in  Europe — and  precious  sick  of  them  I  got  sometiiues,  I 
can  tell  you.  I  don't  profess  to  be  a  judge,  but  I  know  a  good 
picture  when  I  see  it;  and  I  say  that  calf  is  as  well  painted  a 
calf  as  anybody  could  want.  Rough,"  said  he,  waving  his 
hand  slightly,  "a  little  rough.  Wanting  in  finish,  don't  you 
know.  But  a  first-rate  sketch ;  what  I  call  an  uncommon  good 
sketch.  I  should  not  mind  having  that  Iniiig  up  in  my  hall. 
But  the  gable  of  the  hou.se  is  a  leetle  tumble-over,  isn't  if — I 
would  suggest — " 


3G8  SHANDON    BELLS. 

He  took  the  canvas  down,  and  lield  it  out  at  arm's-length, 
examining-  it  critically. 

"It  is  nothing — it  is  a  daub,"  said  John  Ross,  rather  impa- 
tiently, and  he  got  the  canvas  out  of  his  hands  and  put  it  up 
again,  with  its  face  to  the  wall. 

But  Mr.  Scobell  resumed  jiossession  of  it,  and  again  held  it 
out  at  arm's-length. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  patronizingly;  "  it  has  merit.  It  is  well 
balanced.  I  call  the  light  and  shade  of  that  sketch  \erj  well 
balanced  indeed.  And  I  am  not  afraid  to  trust  my  own  judg- 
ment. I  never  give  an  opinion  without  being  ready  to  back  it 
with  money.  My  notion  is  that  a  man  should  buy  pictures 
that  please  himself;  why  should  he  care  what  other  people 
think  ?  No,  what  I  say  is,  that's  a  very  good  sketch ;  an  un- 
common good  sketch  it  is;  very  well  balanced  light  and 
shadow;  and  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Mr. — Mr.  Ross, 
that  I  will  bu3^  it.  I  should  not  be  at  all  ashamed  to  have 
that  sketch  hung  up  in  my  hall — " 

But  now  the  red-bearded  artist  became  very  angry,  and  got 
hold  of  the  unlucky  sketch,  and  sent  it  spinning  to  the  end  of 
the  studio,  where  it  unhappily  hit  the  sleeping  collie,  that 
forthwith  sprung  up  with  a  howl,  and  slunk  into  a  further  cor- 
ner, with  its  tail  between  its  legs. 

"I  would  not  have  such  a  thing  go  out  of  the  place,"  said 
he,  briefly. 

But  he  soon  recovered  his  temper;  and  when  at  last  Mr. 
Scobell,  after  much  more  encouraging  and  soothing  advice 
and  criticism,  had  left,  all  that  John  Ross  said  to  his  friend 
about  the  visitor  was  merely, 

"  Man,  he's  a  bletherer,  that  one." 

They  went  to  the  dinner,  however,  at  the  Abercorn  Club; 
and  a  very  sumptuous  affair  it  was.  They  had  the  Strangers' 
Dining-room  to  themselves,  and  it  was  brilliantly  lit,  and  the 
table  was  magnificently  decorated  with  flowers.  Of  the  gen- 
tlemen present  Fitzgerald  only  knew  his  host,  his  companion 
Ross,  Mr.  Gifford,  and,  by  sight,  Mr.  Sydenham;  but  he  was  in- 
troduced to  the  others  by  Mr.  Scobell  with  a  sei-ies  of  pompous 
little  compliments,  the  oi'deal  not  being  the  less  severe  that 
these  portly  middle-aged  persons  regarded  him  with  such  a 
silent,  blank,  lack -lustre -eyed  scrutiny  that  he  was  on  the 


THE  BOOK.  369 

point  of  saying,  "  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  bite."  He  wondered 
what  manner  of  men  these  were;  and  the  mystery  was  not 
rendered  less  inscrutable  when,  after  they  had  sat  down,  Mr. 
Scobell  remarked  to  him  in  an  under-tone, 

"There's  four  millions  at  this  table." 

According  to  Fitzgerald's  way  of  counting,  there  were  only 
ten  persons ;  so  he  was  more  hopelessly  in  a  fog  than  ever. 

'"Four  millions,  if  there's  a  farthing,"  continued  Mr.  Sco- 
bell, in  the  same  low  tone.  "And  as  you  and  your  friend 
Ross  and  Sydenham  and  I  have  little  enough,  you  may  ima- 
gine what  the  other  six  have  amongst  them.  The  man  oppo- 
site me  and  his  right-hand  neighbor  are  Directors  of  the  Bank 
of  England." 

Then  Fitzgerald  began  to  see.  No  wonder  these  gentlemen 
were  gi-ave  if  they  had  the  responsibility  of  owning  four  mill- 
ions of  money  weighing  on  them ;  and  there  was  a  business- 
like seriousness  in  the  way  they  attacked  their  dinner,  not 
turning  aside  for  frivolous  pleasantries,  but  keeping  a  sliarp 
eye  on  the  successive  dishes.  In  course  of  time,  however,  the 
severity  of  their  demeanor  abated  ;  the  staccato  remarks  about 
the  probability  of  another  European  war,  which  hitherto  had 
represented  their  conversation,  developed  into  a  unanimous 
abuse  of  the  foreign  policy  of  the  then  French  Government; 
and  then  again  one  funny  man  at  the  end  of  the  table  would 
succeed  in  getting  his  next  neighbor  to  laugh  (when  not  too 
busy).  John  Ross  and  the  great  Academician  appeared  to  have 
become  friends  at  once,  and  were  talking  in  an  animated 
fashion ;  Mr.  Gifford  was  ratlier  in  an  absent  frame  of  mind ; 
while  Scobell,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  beamed  and  shone  upon 
his  guests  in  silence. 

"Well,  Fitzgerald,"  said  Mr.  Gifford,  "since  we  last  dined 
together  one  of  the  little  group  has  rather  dro])])ed  under." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  liim  ?  Do  you  know  where 
he  is?"  said  his  neighbor,  knowing  well  wliom  he  meant. 

"In  Paris.  Not  very  well  off,  I  fear.  He  married  Lady 
Ipswich  after  the  decree  nisi  was  made  absolute;  and  I  believe 
her  friends  made  some  small  provision  for  lier;  but  Clarke 
had  always  careless  and  expensive  habits,  and  I  am  afraid  lie 
is  a  little  given  to  borrowing.  But  they  have  a  pretty  house,  I 
am  told,  just  outside  the  Marl;le  Ai'ch." 

IG* 


370  SIIANDON  BELLS. 

"  The  Arc  de  Triomphe,''^  his  neighbor  suggested. 

"Well,  yes:  what  did  I  say  ?  I  hope  his  book  will  be  suc- 
cessful; but  the  subject  has  so  little  interest  for  the  general 
public — " 

"His book?     What  book?" 

"It  came  to  the  office  the  day  before  yesterday,  I  think. 
The  Laws  and  Limitations  of  Art,  it  is  called." 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  review  it!"  Fitzgerald  ex- 
claimed, with  an  eagerness  that  made  his  companion  regard 
him  with  a  quick  look. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Gifford,  with  an  odd  kind  of  smile;  "we 
could  not  have  one  of  our  own  reviewei's  abused  in  our  own 
reviewing  columns." 

"Your  columns?"  said  Fitzgerald,  in  bewilderment.  "  Does 
Hilton  Clarke  write  for  you  ?" 

"Sometimes,"  was  the  answer.  "The  Weekly  Gazette  got 
tired  of  him  long  ago,  and  he  appealed  to  me.  There  are  one 
or  two  things  he  can  do  very  well.  I  am  sorry  for  the  fellow. 
I  hope  his  book  will  be  successful,  but  I  doubt  it." 

"Why  won't  you  let  me  review  it,  then?"  said  Fitzgerald, 
who  was  on  pretty  familiar  terms  with  the  editor. 

"You  had  some  squabble  with  him,  hadn't  you,  about  the 
Household  Magazine  f  said  Mr.  Gifford,  with  his  piercing  eyes 
regarding  him.  "  I  gathered  from  Scobell  that  he  had  treated 
you  rather  badly.     Well,  that  is  nothing  new ;  but  still — " 

"Oh,  if  you  mean  that,"  Fitzgerald  said,  hastily,  "you  are 
quite  mistaken.  It  is  quite  the  other  way.  I  meant  to  say 
everything  I  could  for  the  book.  He  did  owe  me  some  money; 
but  then,  on  the  other  hand,  I  owe  him  something.  But  for 
him  I  dare  say  I  should  at  this  moment  be  the  sub-editor  of  the 
Cork  Chronicle.     I  should  like  to  praise  the  book." 

"That  is  quite  as  bad  a  tem^jer,"  said  Mr.  Gifford.  "We 
will  get  some  more  impartial  person — but  some  friendly  per- 
son, I  hope.  And  why  should  you  want  to  write  reviews? 
Scobell  tells  me  you  are  now  the  owner  of  an  estate  in  Ireland, 
and  have  a  handsome  income  besides." 

"I  want  to  make  all  the  money  I  can,"  Fitzgei'ald  said,  "  for 
I  know  plenty  of  uses  for  it.  And  as  for  the  Irish  estate,  I 
consider  myself  only  the  steward  of  it ;  thovigh  I  get  shooting 
and  fishing  for  nothing,  and  also  the  most  delightful  quiet 


THE  BOOK.  371 

when  tliere  is  a  chance  of  running  over.  Ask  your  neighbor 
— oh,  let  me  introduce  you :  Mr.  Ross,  Mr.  Gifford — ask  him — 
he  is  an  artist — what  he  thinks  of  Boat  of  Garry." 

Mr.  Gifford  thereupon  turned  to  John  Ross,  and  Fitzgerald 
was  left  unoccupied,  whereupon  Mr.  Scobell,  who  had  over- 
heard some  chance  phrase,  said : 

"I  say,  my  dear  f'lah,  what  did  you  mean  hj  that  dedica- 
tion?* Upon  my  life  I  don't  know  whether  the  dear  old  lady 
was  more  pleased  by  it  or  more  indignant.  She  did  not  speak 
to  you  about  it  perhaps  ?" 

"Yes,  she  did.  She  thanked  me;  that  was  all.  What  was 
there  to  be  indignant  about  ?" 

"  '  My  dear  Mr.  Scobell,'  she  said  to  me — you  see,  Fitzgerald, 
I  have  known  the  Chetwyuds  for  many  years ;  they  have  al- 
Avays  been  in  our  set — 'my  dear  Mr.  Scobell,'  she  said,  'what 
does  the  lad  mean  by  describing  me  as  of  Boat  of  Garry  ? 
Won't  he  take  it  when  I  give  it  to  him  ?  He  wanted  to  give 
it  to  Mary  to  squander  away;  and  now  he  wants  to  saddle  me 
with  it.     Can't  I  get  rid  of  it  anyhow  V  " 

"Oh,  but  that  is  all  right,"  said  Fitzgerald.  "That  is  quite 
settled  and  understood.  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  I  understand  the 
position  perfectly;  and  so  also  does  M — Miss  Clietwynd." 

So  the  banquet  went  on;  the  talk  becoming  generally  loud- 
er; with  gushes  of  laughter  liere  or  there;  and  perhaps  no- 
thing occurred  particularly  deserving  of  mention  except  that 
one  tall  and  portly  gentleman,  of  a  most  severe  and  repellent 
countenance,  who  had  been  boring  everybody  to  death  about 
his  travels  in  Armenia,  was  heard  to  remark,  in  the  most  in- 
nocent manner,  of  a  well-known  statesman  whom  they  were 
discussing:  "Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  he  is  a  man  of  very 
strange  fancies — very  strange  fancies  indeed.  He  took  a  most 
unaccountable  dislike  to  my.self.  A  most  singular  thing. 
Yes,  and  he  showed  it  too — damme,  he  showed  it."  And  also 
that  Master  Willie,  by  a  base  and  unworthy  subterfuge,  obtaiu- 


*  This  was  tlie  dedicalion  in  fjucstion,  prefixed  to  tliu  little  volume: 

7b  mi/  fr'miil  and  licnrfadrcxK, 

Miw.  Algkjinon  Ciiktwv.nd, 

of  Ill/do  Park  Oardem  and  lioat  of  Garrii,  Ireland,  f/ils  collection  of  idle 

papers  is  most  respect/ully  dedicated. 


372  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ed  a  ti'iuinpli  over  his  enemy  of  former  days.  For  he  began 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Gilford  about  familiar  quotations;  and  in  the 
most  nai've  manner  observed  that  few  w^ere  better  known  than 

"  De  par  le  Roi,  defense  a  Dieu, 
D'operer  miracle  en  ce  lieu." 

Tlie  editor  fell  into  the  trap  headlong. 

"De/aiVe  miracle — de  faire  miracle,  I  think,"  said  he,  po- 
litely. 

'^'  D'operer,  I  think  it  is,"  said  Fitzgerald,  graciously. 

"Pai'don  me,  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong.  It  is  a  most  famil- 
iar quotation.     De  faire  miracle  en  ce  lieu.'''' 

"I  would  not  contradict  you;  for,  as  you  say,  the  couplet 
is  so  well  known." 

"Oh,  there  is  Jiot  a  doubt  of  it — not  a  doubt  of  it.  Every 
school-boy  knows  it.     De  faire  miracle,  of  course." 

"My  authority  for  d'operer,''''  continued  his  foe,  in  an  absent 
and  indifferent  kind  of  way,  pretending  to  be  very  busy  in  ex- 
amining the  constituents  of  a  mysterious  looking  sweet,  "is  not 
very  absolute.  I  found  it  in  the  notes  to  an  old  edition  I  have 
of  Voltaii'e's  Pucelle,  along  with  a  little  history  of  St.  Paris. 
The  date  of  the  edition  is  1773,  and  the  couplet  is  spoken  of  as 
being  familiar.     But  perhaps  it  is  a  misquotation." 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Gifford  ;  but  he  lightly 
changed  the  subject,  and  wanted  Fitzgerald  to  tell  him  how 
the  Game  Laws  affected  the  poorer  tenantry  in  the  southwest 
of  Ireland.  And  Fitzgerald  imparted  to  him  what  information 
he  could  on  that  subject,  without  recalling  to  him  the  fact 
that  they  had  had  a  dispute  about  the  same  couplet  in  former 
days  when  they  did  not  meet  on  quite  such  equal  terms. 

At  last  the  bounteous  feast  came  to  an  end ;  and  there  was 
much  hand-shaking  on  the  steps  of  the  Abercorn  Club.  As 
far  as  Fitzgerald  was  concerned,  it  vei'y  soon  appeared  that 
this  big  dinner  might,  if  he  chose,  be  regarded  as  only  the  be- 
ginning of  a  quite  indefinite  series  of  similar  repasts,  though 
perhaps  of  a  more  domestic  kind,  for  the  little  book  made  its 
way  in  a  remarkable  manner;  and  probably  there  was  some- 
thing in  its  contents  that  made  people  curious  about  the  per- 
sonality of  the  author;  and  no  doubt  he  might  have  figured  at 
a  great  many  afternoon  teas,  and  dinner  parties,  and  midnight 


IX  THE  EAST.  373 

receptions.  But,  as  it  turned  out,  he  found  his  life  far  too  full 
of  occupation  for  anything  of  the  kind.  When  he  dined  at  all 
in  the  evening,  he  went  to,  or  staid  for,  Mrs.  Chetwynd's  table 
d'hote;  and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  would  have  earn- 
ed the  contempt  of  Mr.  Scobell  by  his  indifference  to  the  good 
things  of  this  world,  or  such  of  them  as  appeared  on  the  dinner 
table.  But  it  was  a  fine  thing,  this  constant  and  busy  occupa- 
tion :  this  finding  that  both  time  and  money  wei^e  inadequate 
to  the  calls  made  upon  him.  The  "old,  hysterical  mock- 
disease"  got  in  a  manner  jostled  out  of  existence ;  there  was  no 
longer  any  room  for  it.  That  was  all  left  behind  now ;  except, 
alas!  when  the  wonder- world  of  sleep  was  opened,  and  again 
he  was  walking  with  Kitty  on  the  sunny  Sunday  mornings 
along  the  hawthorn  lanes  outside  of  Cork,  or  rowing  her  home 
in  the  moonlight,  she  singing  the  while,  past  the  silent  quays 
of  Inisheen. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

IN   THE   EAST. 


It  may  easily  be  surmised  in  what  direction  Fitzgerald  was 
now  spending  what  time  he  could  spare  from  his  literary  labors 
and  what  money  he  could  save  from  his  stewardship,  as  he 
considered  it,  of  Boat  of  Garry.  At  first  he  accompanied  Miss 
Chetwynd  on  one  or  two  of  her  eastern  expeditions  with  far 
more  of  curiosity  and  interest  than  of  hope;  for  it  seemed  to 
him,  as  it  probably  would  to  any  outsider,  that  to  seek  to 
alleviate  the  distress  and  misery  of  this  vast  population  with 
any  such  means  as  were  at  their  command  was  about  as 
sanguine  as  to  try  to  drain  an  Irish  bog  with  a  sponge.  More- 
over, it  was  not  very  picturesque — as  she  had  forewarned  him. 
Very  rarely  was  the  wretchedness  tragic;  it  was  merely  mean 
and  commonplace;  existence  in  these  foul-smelling  lanes  and 
desolate  grimy  squares  seemed  a  hick-lustrc  kind  of  thing; 
occasionally  the  people  were  su.spicious  rather  tlian  grateful, 
and  always  they  Miisj)laced  their  /t's.  But  by-and-by,  as  time 
went  on,  and  as  he  saw  further  into  the  mechanism  of  the 


374  feHANDON   BELLS. 

various  organizations,  he  could  not  help  admiring  the  patient 
heroism  of  those  voluntary  missionaries  who,  not  deterred  by 
the  vastness  or  the  difficulties  of  the  task,  busily  and  cheer- 
fully set  to  work  to  do  what  they  could ;  and  he  began  to  see 
the  appreciable  fruit  of  their  labors,  even  if  it  were  only  a 
touch  of  light  and  color  added  here  and  there  to  those  poor 
ignoble  lives — a  flower-box  in  a  window-sill ;  a  drinking  fount- 
ain, perhaps ;  an  exhibition  of  pictures ;  a  bit  of  green  thrown 
open  to  the  children,  with  a  swing  or  two.  Then  the  free 
libraries,  with  books,  magazines,  and  newspapers;  cool  in  the 
summer,  and  well  warmed  in  the  winter,  with  coffee  at  a  pen- 
ny a  cup ;  and  the  lectures  and  readings  and  entertainments, 
now  putting  some  inkling  of  sanitary  requirements  into  the 
heads  of  the  grown-up  people,  again  teaching  the  boys  and 
lads  something  of  the  qualities  that  built  up  England ;  and  the 
invaluable  district  nurses,  carrying  notions  of  cleanliness  and 
kindliness  into  these  poor  homes ;  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth : 
all  this  busy,  silent,  unobtrusive  work,  not  appealing  loudly 
for  subscriptions,  and  not  claiming  for  its  authors  any  title 
to  martyrdom,  seemed  to  him  a  very  noble  thing.  The  sym- 
pathy led  to  practical  help.  At  the  outset  he  rather  wished  to 
act  merely  as  assistant  and  safeguard  to  the  niece  of  his  bene- 
factress; but  he  soon  found  there  was  no  need  for  that.  She 
had  no  fear,  and  thei'e  was  nothing  to  fear.  In  another  way, 
liowever,  he  was  of  use  to  her.  Mary  Chetwynd  was  very 
much  at  home  in  dealing  with  "her  poor  people,"  as  she  call- 
ed them,  directly ;  and  she  had  an  admirable  self-possession 
on  the  platform,  whether  she  was  demonstrating  to  an  assem- 
blage of  men  and  women  the  awful  effects  of  drinking  un- 
filtered  London  water,  or  reciting  patriotic  poems  to  an  audi- 
ence of  Whitechapel  youths ;  but  at  the  council  board  of  the 
society  she  was  somewhat  diffident.  It  very  soon  appeared, 
however,  that  when  Mr.  Fitzgerald  was  in  course  of  time  elect- 
ed to  this  board,  the  new  member  held  very  strong  opinions 
about  the  rights  of  minorities — especially  when  the  minority 
was  Mary  Chetwynd.  Arguments  and  grumbling  were  alike 
thrown  away  upon  him.  No,  there  he  was;  there  he  would 
stay.  And  at  last,  upon  the  burning  question  of  beer,  matters 
came  to  a  final  issue. 

"  Very  well,"  said  he,  when  he  and  Miss  Chetwynd  had  been 


IN  THE  EAST.  375 

entirely  outvoted,  "we  need  not  quarrel.  You  may  go  your 
way,  but  you  can't  hinder  me  fromi  going  mine.  As  I  said,  I 
don't  think  a  glass  of  ale  can  do  any  hai*m — if  not  given  to 
the  boys ;  and  I  don't  think  it  fair  to  ask  these  men  to  come 
and  spend  a  long  evening  without  giving  them  that  small 
amount  of  indulgence.     Now  I  mean  to  try  it — " 

There  was  a  kind  of  murmur  of  protest  at  this.  Was  he 
going  to  ignore  such  a  solemn  thing  as  a  vote  ? 

'"But  you  may  have  it  either  of  two  waj^s.  Either  I  will 
resign  altogether,  and  be  free  to  act  that  way,  or  I  will  remain 
a  member  of  the  society,  making  any  entertainments  I  get  up 
my  own  affair — at  my  own  expense,  I  mean— so  that  for  them 
the  society  will  not  be  responsible.  That  will  take  away  the 
reproach  of  beer  from  you ;  it  will  be  my  doing  alone." 

There  was  a  little  further  grumbling;  but  the  second  alter- 
native was  eventually  chosen.  They  did  not  wish  to  get  rid 
of  Fitzgerald  altogether,  for  he  was  an  active  sort  of  fellow, 
and  he  had  time  and  money  at  his  disposal ;  and  they  had  seen 
how  well  he  got  on  with  the  men  and  boys  at  these  meetings, 
keeping  order  in  a  good-humored,  hectoring  waj^.  Besides, 
they  had  had  one  or  two  newspaper  squabbles,  and  he  had 
been  found  to  be  an  efficient  champion  in  that  direction. 

But  when  they  got  outside,  Mary  Chetwynd  said  to  him, 
regarding  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  frightened  and  laugh- 
ing at  the  same  time, 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"Nothing  dreadful,  I  hope,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"When  you  said  '  I,'  of  course  you  meant  '  we'  ?" 

"Well,  then?" 

"But  how  do  you  expect  you  and  me  to  do  all  that  by  our- 
selves ?  Think  of  the  expense.  Auntie  will  be  furious.  She 
does  not  mind  about  me;  but  she  says  I  am  ruining  you,  and 
that  you  are  getting  no  pleasure  in  life — " 

"Didn't  I  promise  to  go  over  to  Boat  of  Garry  in  July?  and 
you  and  she,  I  hope,  will  come  over  and  stay  there  too." 

"And  I  have  some  remorse  also,"  slie  continued.  "You 
would  never  have  rai.sed  the  beer  question  if  I  liad  not  told 

you  about  it  in  Ireland.     Tlieii  that  little Theatre  co.sts 

£8  10s.  a  night,  witliout  any  beer.  If  I  could  pay  for  every- 
thing, I  should  not  mind.     Or  if  you  would  have  a  hack  and 


376  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ride  every  day  in  tlie  Park,  as  Mr.  Scobell  suggests,  then  auntie 
would  be  more  satisfied,  and  I  should  be  sure  you  had  some 
kind  of — of — " 

"But  do  I  look  so  unhappy?"'  he  asked,  with  a  laugh. 
"However,  your  mention  of  Mr.  Scobell  is  most  opportune. 
I  think  I  ought  to  plunder  Mr.  Scobell — " 

"Oh  no;  after  the  filters — " 

' '  But  he  has  friends.  At  a  dinner  last  year  he  told  me  six 
of  them  then  at  the  table  were  worth  four  millions.  Now  if 
we  could  get  Mr.  Scobell  to  squeeze  them  a  little,  what  would 
it  matter  about  the Theatre  costing  £8  10s.  a  night  ?" 

"  You  know  best,"  she  said,  simply;  "and  I  hope  we  have 
not  undertaken  too  much." 

But  indeed,  whether  he  or  she  knew,  or  whether  both  were 
ignorant,  what  interested  him  in  that  work  down  there,  and 
what  was  a  constant  delight  to  him,  so  that  the  various  pur- 
suits or  pleasure  on  which  he  might  have  spent  the  very  liber- 
al income  he  enjoyed  were  not  even  to  be  thought  of,  was  the 
mere  spectacle  of  herself  in  her  relations  with  these  poor  peo- 
ple. The  beautiful,  quiet  serenity  of  her  nature  seemed  to 
shine  there,  amid  all  that  turmoil  of  want  and  care  and  ignor- 
ance and  crime.  Wherever  she  went,  peace  surrounded  her. 
Sickly  and  ailing  women,  inclined  to  succumb  altogether  to 
the  hard  pressure  of  fate,  drew  strength  from  the  self-reliant 
character  of  this  mere  girl,  and  struggled  on  anew.  Many  a 
one  of  them  told  Fitzgerald  that  none  of  the  district  nurses 
could  bring  such  cheerfulness  into  a  house  as  she  could.  He 
grew  to  think  of  her  what  they  thought  of  her.  He  heard 
their  stories  of  her;  he  saw  her  through  their  eyes — this  king's 
daughter  with  the  outstretched  hands,  blessing  and  comforting 
wherever  she  went. 

"  Willie,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwynd  to  him  one  evening  before 
the  guests  arrived  for  the  table  dliote,  ' '  why  did  you  not  read 
to  me  that  article  in  the  Liberal  Review  about  benevolence — 
about  the  reaction  of  benevolence  on  one's  self — what  was  it 
called  ? — '  Benevolence  as  an  Investment  ?' " 
"  I  saw  the  article,"  said  he,  evasively. 
"Yes,  and  you  wrote  it  ?" 
"Why,  how  should  you  think  that  ?"  said  he. 
"Because  Mrs.  Sims  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  she  read 


IX  THE  EAST.  .'577 

it  to  me,  and  botli  of  us  agreed  that  you  had  been  describing 
our  Mary." 

"I — I  hope  you  don't  think  there  is  anj'thing  that  would 
annoy — that  would  be  too  personal — if  Miss  Chetwynd  were 
to  see  it  ?"  he  stammered. 

"Well,"  said  the  bright  little  old  lady,  "considering  that 
you  give  her  all  the  virtues  of  an  angel,  with  half  a  dozen 
other  womanly  ones,  I  don't  think  she  ought  to  object.  And 
indeed,  you  know,  although  she  is  my  niece,  I  must  admit  that 
the  portrait  is  I'ecognizable." 

So  the  time  passed ;  and  Mary  Chetwynd  was  very  ]n'oud  of 
the  success  of  the  new  venture  that  Fitzgerald  had  started 
(though  whether  that  success  was  due  to  the  merits  of  the  lec- 
turer and  the  efficiency  of  her  stage-manager  aiid  body-guard, 
or  simply  to  beer,  it  would  be  unnecessary  to  discuss),  and  there 
was  no  great  difficulty  about  funds,  after  all.  Then  Fitzgerald 
and  Mrs.  Chetwynd  and  her  niece  went  over  to  Boat  of  Garry 
in  the  July  of  that  year;  and  John  Ross  went  with  them,  being 
commissioned  to  reproduce  one  or  two  of  his  sepia  sketches  in 
oils ;  and  they  had  a  pleasant  stay  there  until  the  end  of  August. 
Altogether  their  life,  cither  there  or  here  in  London,  was  an  un- 
eventful one,  full  of  cheerful  activities  and  kindlinesses;  and 
there  seemed  no  reason  why  any  one  should  wish  it  changed. 

But  accidents  happen.  One  evening,  after  they  had  come 
back,  Miss  Chetwynd  had  ai'ranged  to  have  her  following  of 
youths  and  lads  assemble  in  the  little  theatre  before  referred 
to,  to  have  displayed  to  them,  by  means  of  a  series  of  magic- 
lantern  projections  on  a  large  screen,  some  portraits  of  groat 
Englishmen,  with  occasional  remarks  by  herself.  Ordinarily, 
on  such  occasions,  Fitzgerald  was  there  at  the  marshalling  of 
the  lads,  ready  with  a  good-natured  cuff  to  preserve  manners, 
if  need  be;  but  the  truth  was  that  as  long  as  "the  lady"  was 
present  they  were  very  well  behaved  indeed.  On  this  evening, 
however,  there  was  some  serious  business  elsewhere  about  a 
poor  wretch  who  had  jjurloined  a  book  from  one  of  the  free 
libraries,  to  buy  (as  he  said)  a  loaf  of  bread;  and  so  Fitz- 
gerald did  not  get  along  to  the  theatre  until  the  lecture,  or 
entertainment,  or  whatever  it  might  be  called,  was  \vell  on  its 
way.  He  sli])ped  into  a  corner  of  tlie  pit  (there  were  neither 
stalls,  gallery,  nor  boxes  in  this  little  theatre)  and  sat  down. 


378  SHANDON  BELLS. 

The  lecturess  seemed  very  self-possessed  and  familiar  with 
her  audience,  talking  to  them  as  she  selected  this  or  that  slide, 
and  occasionally  coming  to  the  foot-lights  to  address  them 
directly. 

"Now,"  she  said,  as  she  was  stooping  over  the  table  to  pick 
out  the  proper  slide,  "I  suppose  some  of  you  read  Jones's 
Journal  V 

This  was  a  wretched  little  local  print,  which  did  a  good 
deal  of  mischief  down  there.  Her  audience,  perhaps  thinking 
that  the  portrait  of  the  great  Mr.  Jones  was  about  to  appear 
on  the  screen,  stamped  their  feet  a  bit.  On  that  she  rose  erect, 
and  faced  them  with  some  astonishment. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "is  that  the  kind  of  paper  you  admire? 
I  hope  not.  I  hope  not,  indeed !  Perhaps  some  of  you  think 
that  when  Mr.  Jones  is  denouncing  the  Government,  and 
saying  they  have  done  this,  that,  and  the  other  thing,  he  could 
do  it  better  himself  ?  Would  you  like  to  see  him  try  ?  Is  he 
likely  to  know  more  about  governing  a  country — is  he  likely 
to  be  more  honest — than  men  who  have  been  educated  all 
their  lives  for  it,  many  of  them  very  rich  men,  who,  if  they 
had  chosen,  might  have  spent  all  their  time  in  amusing  them- 
selves with  horse-races  or  yachts,  but  who,  instead,  go  through 
an  amount  of  labor  and  drudgery  that  the  hardest-worked 
among  you  don't  know  anything  about,  only  to  find  them- 
selves called  swindlers  and  pickpockets  by  gentlemen  like  Mr. 
Jones  ?  Well,  now,  I  know  something  that  will  enable  you 
to  judge  of  Mr.  Jones.  I  know  that  he  has  been  twice  before 
the  magistrate  for  drunkenness,  and  was  fined  each  time ;  and 
I  know  there  was  an  execution  in  his  office  not  very  long  ago; 
and  I  put  it  to  you  whether  a  man  who  manages  his  own 
afi'airs  like  that  would  be  likely  to  be  able  to  manage  the  af- 
fairs of  the  country  ?" 

This  argument,  though  someAvhat  crude,  and  even  verging 
upon  libel,  was,  at  all  events,  easily  understood. 

"No !  no !"  was  the  general  response. 

"  Vv^ell,  now,  I  am  going  to  put  before  you  the  portrait  of  a 
great  Conservative  statesman,  a  most  able  and  distinguished 
man.  Perhaps  I  am  not  a  Conservative  myself;  but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there ;  I  want  you  to  believe  that  the  men 
who  govern  England  on  both  sides  in  politics  are  trying  to  do 


IN  THE  EAST.  379 

their  best ;  and  that  the  man  who  tries  to  stir  up  people  to  law- 
lessness and  discontent  is  doing  his  worst,  and  making  nothing 
but  mischief.  Don't  you  believe  that  the  rich  have  stolen  the 
money  they  have;  in  most  cases  it  has  been  brought  together 
by  their  fathers  and  grandfathers  being  sober,  industrious,  and 
able  men ;  and  when  these  people  try  to  make  good  laws  you 
ought  to  be  glad  of  it,  instead  of  howling  at  them  as  if  they 
were  tyrants.  It  is  the  interest  of  everybody  to  preserve  law 
and  order.  Why,  if  it  w^as  not  for  law  and  order,  how  could 
your  mothers  and  sisters  go  along  Whitechapel  Road  on  a  Sat- 
urday night,  looking  at  the  shops,  and  buying  things  for  the 
Sunday  dinner?  It  is  the  law  that  protects  them  from  being 
pushed  down  and  their  money  taken  from  them.  And  so  far 
from  regarding  the  police  as  your  natural  enemies,  or  the 
enemies  of  anybody,  you  ought  to  think  of  what  Stepney  or 
Whitechapel  would  be  without  them,  and  you  ought  to  be 
precious  glad  to  lend  them  a  helping  hand  when  you  see  a  thief 
bolting,  or  when  you  see  a  band  of  roughs  coming  along  the 
pavement,  hustling  the  women  oflp  and  annoying  peaceable 
people." 

She  put  the  selected  slide  into  the  magic  lantern;  the  man 
in  the  "wings"  lowered  the  gas  of  the  foot-lights,  and  when 
the  large,  visionary,  colored  figure  of  this  Conservative  states- 
man appeared  on  the  screen,  it  was  greeted  (despite  all  the 
tirades  of  Jones's  Journal)  with  a  murmur  of  approval.  But 
just  at  this  moment  something  else  happened.  One  amongst 
the  audience  whose  eyes  had  Avandered  away  from  the  large 
circle  of  light  on  the  screen  had  noticed  a  flickering  of  another 
sort  of  light  along  the  edge  of  a  portion  of  the  curtain ;  and 
thoughtlessly  he  called  out  "Fire!"  There  was  an  instant  of 
dead  silence,  every  one  looking  all  around ;  and  then,  as  tlie  red 
ligbt  up  there  attracted  their  eyes,  there  was  a  universal  rush 
and  clamor.  Fitzgerald  jumped  to  iiis  feet  and  called  to 
them  to  sit  down;  but  he  niiglit  as  well  have  called  to  the  sea. 
There  were  no  shrieks  or  screams,  for  there  were  no  women 
present;  but  a  wild  struggle  to  reach  the  doors,  and  a  conse- 
quent wedging  up  of  tlie  excited  crowd.  They  could  Jiot 
squeeze  through.  Then  the  blade  mass — or  a  great  ])ortion 
of  it — seemed  to  turn ;  frighteiuid  faces  looked  here,  there,  ev- 
erywhere; then  the  stage  was  charged.     Fitzgerald  caught  the 


380  SHANDON  BELLS. 

first  one  tliat  made  by  liim,  and  jammed  him  down  on  to  the 
form. 

"Sit  down,  you  fool;  there  is  no  danger  !" 

But  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  put  his  hands  on  a  pack 
of  wolves.  They  swarmed  up  and  over  on  the  stage;  seeing 
which,  Fitzgerald  leaped  up  there  too ;  shoved  them  aside,  and 
made  for  the  spot  where  Miss  Chetwynd  was  standing,  her  face 
somewhat  aghast.  She  was  not  regarding  the  flames  over- 
head ;  she  was  looking  at  the  rushing  crowd  that  was  now 
hurrying  wildly  toward  the  narrow  passage  leading  from  be- 
hind the  stage.  He  caught  her  hand — or  rather  it  was  her 
wrist — and  held  it  tight. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  he,  glancing  up  at  the  smoulder- 
ing curtain,  and  then  at  the  disappearing  people.  "There  is 
no  danger.     They  will  all  get  out." 

"I  am  not  afraid,  so  long  as  you  are  by  me,"  she  said,  in  a 
rather  proud  kind  of  way. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  eyes ;  and  her  eyes  met  his. 

"For  always,  then?" 

She  did  not  speak ;  but  she  placed  her  hand  over  his  hand 
that  held  her  wrist;  and  so  they  remained,  waiting  for  the 
wild  surging  mass  to  get  free  away,  while  the  red  light  over- 
head grew  more  distinct. 

It  was  a  strange  situation ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  no  fear. 
He  remembered  afterward  that  he  was  trying  to  calculate  how 
many  more  seconds  it  would  take  for  the  last  of  the  crowd  to 
get  through ;  also  wondering  when  the  firemen  would  arrive, 
and  whether  the  theatre  had  been  left  altogether  without  at- 
tendants; and  at  the  same  time  watching  quite  calmly  the 
progress  of  the  flames.  They  did  not  pi'oceed  rapidly.  It  was 
some  little  time  before  the  wood-work  caught  fire  anywhere; 
for  at  first  it  slowly  blackened  and  frizzled,  as  it  were ;  then 
a  pale  thin  blue  fire  became  visible  here  and  there  along  its 
surface;  then  a  quicker  glow  of  crimson  gleamed  up. 

"Shall  we  go  now  ?"  he  said — for  the  loud  cries  for  Dick 
and  Hai'ry  and  Jack  and  Bill  had  grown  fainter  and  fainter. 

"  When  you  please,"  said  she,  with  firm  lips. 

There  was  no  trouble  or  danger  about  the  matter.  Just  as 
they  were  leaving,  a  loud  splash  and  hissing  was  heard  over- 
head and  a  shower  of  heavy  drops  of  water  came  over  the 


"she    did    not    speak;     but    SHK    Pr.ACKD    IIKIl    HAND    OVER    MIS    HAND 
THAT    ilKI.D    IIKR    WKIST." 


IN  A  GALLERY.  383 

stage.  They  made  their  way  along  the  "wings"  and  out  by 
the  stage-door,  and  found  a  large  crowd  assembled  in  the 
street,  kept  back  from  the  fire-engines  by  the  police.  In  ten 
or  twelve  minutes  the  whole  affair  was  over,  and  it  only  re- 
mained for  Fitzgerald  to  get  hold  of  the  gas-man  from  among 
the  crowd  (the  rascal  had  been  among  the  first  to  bolt)  to  have 
the  gas  turned  off,  so  that  there  should  be  no  explosion ;  while, 
by  the  light  of  some  candles,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  few  of  the 
boys,  he  got  the  magic-lantern  apparatus  collected  and  carried 
to  a  four-wheeled  cab  outside,  in  which  Mary  Chetwynd  was 
awaiting  him. 

When  at  last  they  had  driven  away  from  the  dense  crowd 
that  still  lingered  about  the  place  there  was  a  better  chance  for 
speaking;  but  silence  seemed  to  be  enough.  At  length  she 
said : 

"You  once  offered  me  Boat  of  Garry.  And  now  you  give 
your  life  to  me.    What  next  ?" 

"It  will  become  worth  something  when  you  take  it,"  he 
answered. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

IN  A  GALLERY. 


And  now  we  must  let  a  few  years  go  by,  and  come  to  a  certain 
Private  View  day  at  the  Hanover  Gallery,  Hanover  Square. 
This  Gallery,  which  was  intended  to  be  an  adjunct  rather  than 
a  rival  to  the  Royal  Academy,  had  been  opened  for  the  first  time 
the  year  before,  and  had  provoked  a  good  deal  of  animadver- 
sion, favorable  and  otherwise.  For  while  some  declared  (with 
more  insistence  than  was  at  all  necessary)  that  its  chief  char- 
acteristic was  an  affected  imitation  of  tlie  manner  of  the  early 
Florentines,  but  with  the  beauty  and  light  and  gladness  of  the 
old  painters  replaced  by  a  sickly  languor  and  distortion  and 
decay;  that  the  decorative  character  of  the  classical  designs  in 
no  wise  served  as  a  cloak  for  obvious  ignorance  of  anatomy 
and  consequent  bad  drawing  of  the  human  form  ;  and  that  the 
landscapes  were  less  remarkable  for  a  reverential  study  of  na- 
ture than  for  an  impertinent  audacity,  there  wei'e  others  who 


384  SHANDON   BELLS. 

maintained  (with  a  touch  of  personal  injury  in  the  tone  of 
their  i-emonstrances)  that  this  Hanover  Gallery  collection  was 
a  welcome  relief  from  the  inanity  of  the  common  run  of  ex- 
hibitions ;  that  at  all  events  it  drove  people  to  think ;  that  a 
seeking  after  the  highest  in  art,  with  whatever  short-comings, 
was  better  than  the  complacency  of  mediocrity ;  that,  in  short, 
anything  was  desirable  that  could  help  to  get  rid  of  the  sim- 
pering curate  sort  of  stulT  that  had  for  so  long  told  its  com- 
monplace and  silly  little  stories  on  the  walls  of  British  gal- 
leries. It  needs  only  be  added  here  that  among  the  most 
vehement  of  the  admirers  of  this  new  institution  was  John 
Ross.  Whether  dissatisfaction  with  the  Royal  Academy's 
continued  neglect  of  him  may  have  had  anything  to  do  with 
this  feeling  it  is  unnecessary  to  inquire,  for  human  motives  are 
mixed  things;  but  at  all  events  his  championship  of  the  new 
Gallery  was  so  uncompromising  that  Mrs.  Chetw3'nd,  who 
was  always  on  the  lookout  to  do  little  kindnesses  in  this  way, 
contrived  a  meeting  between  Sir  Cyril  Smith,  who  was  the 
Director  of  the  place,  and  the  Scotch  artist,  which  had,  as  it 
turned  out,  sufficiently  important  results  for  one  of  them. 

So  on  this  summer-like  day  in  spring  there  was  a  large  and 
fashionable  assemblage  circulating  through  the  rooms,  or  con- 
gregated in  groups  here  and  there,  chatting,  or  regarding 
their  neighbors'  costumes,  which,  among  the  young  maidens 
at  least,  tended  rather  to  sadness  of  hue  and  quaintness  of  de- 
sign. But  there  was  one  group  there,  of  which  a  tall,  bright- 
eyed  young  lady  was  a  conspicuous  member;  and  certainly 
her  gown,  if  there  was  a  suggestion  of  medigevalism  about  the 
shape  of  it,  was  not  lacking  in  boldness  and  richness  of  color. 
It  was  a  velvet  gown,  of  the  color  of  the  very  darkest  sort  of 
wall-flower — a  deep  ruddy  purple;  and  it  was  trimmed  with 
lace,  or  what  appeared  to  be  lace,  of  a  dusky  yellow — not  the 
yellow  of  primi'oses,  but  rather  of  daffodils.  It  was  more  the 
costume  of  a  young  matron  than  of  a  girl ;  but  indeed  when 
you  looked  at  this  person,  it  was  not  her  dress  that  first  atti^acted 
notice,  but  the  grace  and  self-possession  of  her  bearing,  and 
the  bright,  frank  laugh  of  her  eyes. 

A  tall,  elderly,  handsome  man  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd  to  her. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand,  "I  have  been 


IN  A  GALLERY.  385 

hunting  for  you  everywhere.  I  was  told  you  had  come.  And 
how  well  you  are  looking!  And  your  dress,  too — they  say  it 
is  the  prettiest  in  the  room.     Very  pretty — very  pretty !" 

"But  you  need  not  praise  me  for  it,  Sir  Cyril,"  said  she, 
' '  nor  my  di*essmaker  either.  My  husband  chose  the  colors. 
Was  not  that  obedient  of  me  ?  I  told  him  I  dressed  only  to 
please  him,  and  that  he  might  as  well  choose  what  colors  he 
liked  best.     Was  not  that  sweet  of  me  ?" 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "  young  wives  are  always  like  that  at  first — " 

' '  Young  wives,  indeed !  And  my  boy  will  be  four  years 
old  next  June  I" 

"And  your  boy  will  have  very  little  to  thank  you  for  if 
you  go  catching  another  fever,  and  have  to  winter  in  Italy, 
leaving  the  poor  little  fellow  at  home.  Where  is  your  hus- 
band ?" 

"Oh,  he's  away  with  John  Ross  somewhere — fighting,  no 
doubt.  They're  always  fighting  now,  ever  since  we  came 
back  from  Italy." 

"Have  you  been  round  the  rooms  yet?"  he  asked,  glancing 
at  the  little  group  of  friends  from  whom  he  had  slightly  sepa- 
rated her.     She  foi'thwith  introduced  him. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a  little  too  bewildering  yet — to  me 
at  least.  All  one's  friends  seem  to  be  here;  and  it  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  remember  all  you  want  to  say  at  the  moment  that  one 
has  no  time  for  the  pictures.  It  is  more  exciting  than  sitting 
on  a  terrace  at  Sorrento,  or  in  a  veranda  at  Capi'i  Avatching 
the  tourists  climbing  up  the  steps  on  the  donkeys.  We  went 
to  Ischia  after  you  left  us.  Now  don't  stop  talking  to  me.  Sir 
Cyril ;  for  you  have  all  your  fiiends  to  receive — " 

"And  the  whole  day  to  do  it  in,"  said  he,  lightly.  "No, 
but  I  am  coming  back  to  you.  You  must  not  go  away  any- 
where for  lunch.  I.  will  come  for  you  at  one.  Mind  you 
have  got  hold  of  your  husband  and  Mr.  Ross;  there  is  some- 
thing very  nice  and  quiet  i)ropared  in  a  corner — an  invalid's 
lunclieon,  you  know.  Now  go  and  get  a  seat;  don't  stand 
about  all  day;  but  indeed  I  never  saw  you  looking  better  in 
my  life." 

He  was  going  away,  when  he  suddenly  turned. 

"Bless  my  soul  I"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  was  almost  forgetting  to 
ask  how  your  aunt  is — better,  I  hope  ?" 

17 


386  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"Oh,  I  think  so.  I  think  she  is  almost  quite  better.  But 
she  likes  perfect  rest,  and  seems  disinclined  for  the  trouble  of 
going  out.  She  says  she  won't  go  with  us  to  Boat  of  Garry 
this  year." 

"But  she  is  not  ailing  now  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  scarcely  at  all ;  the  warm  weather  suits  her,  and  all 
she  suffers  from  now,  she  says,  is  an  incurable  laziness." 

"  One  o'clock,  then,  mind." 

Almost  immediately  after,  Fitzgerald  came  hurrying  along. 

"Have  you  heard?  has  any  one  told  you?"  he  said,  ea- 
gerly. 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  in  particular,"  she  said.  "But  why 
did  you  put  on  that  shabby  old  shooting-coat  ?  Every  one 
else  has  a  frock-coat,  and  gloves.  Where  are  your  gloves  ? 
This  isn't  Capri  ?" 

' '  Every  one  says  that  Ross's  pictures  are  the  feature  of  the 
exhibition,"  he  said,  in  the  same  rapid  way,  not  in  the  least 
minding  her  remarks  about  his  clothes.  ' '  They  have  given 
them  the  place  of  honor  at  the  head  of  the  next  room — all  five 
in  a  row.  Come  along  and  see  them.  Gifford" — here  he 
turned  to  Mr.  Gifford,  who,  with  his  wife,  a  tall  and  stately 
dame,  was  now  examining  some  of  the  pictures  close  by — 
"Gifford,  come  and  see  some  pictui'es  in  the  next  room.  I 
told  you  they  would  make  their  mark." 

"Your  friend  Ross's,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes.  Come  and  judge  for  yourself.  Mind  you,  I  mean 
to  praise  them,  friend  or  no  friend ;  so  if  you  are  afraid  of  the 
reputation  of  the  Liberal  Revieiv,  you'll  have  to  get  somebody 
else.     Or  w^  will  appeal  to  an  impartial  authority,  if  you  like." 

No  doubt  Mr.  Gifford,  as  the  little  party  together  made  their 
way  up  to  the  head  of  the  next  room,  considered  that  he  him- 
self was  quite  sufficient  of  an  impartial  authority;  and,  as  it 
turned  out,  he  was  much  struck  by  the  series  of  landscapes. 
Or  rather  there  was  only  one  landscape,  treated  under  five 
different  atmospheric  conditions.  The  subject  was  the  sti*etch 
of  meadow,  water,  hill,  and  sky  visible  from  the  window  of  the 
dining-room  at  Boat  of  Garry;  the  first  showing  the  calm, 
clear  dawn  arising  in  the  east,  the  world  being  quite  still  and 
silent  and  lifeless ;  in  the  second  was  all  the  variety  of  a  windy 
summer  day — masses  of  white  cloud  and  shadow,  the  trees 


m  A  GALLERY.  387 

bloAving,  the  work  in  the  fields  going  on,  and  over  at  the  hori- 
zon an  ominous  rising  of  purple ;  then,  in  number  three,  a  des- 
olation of  rain,  everything  gray  and  blurred  and  hopeless; 
number  four  showed  the  afternoon  clearing  up  somewhat, 
with  a  golden  mist  beginning  to  tell  as  the  sunlight  got 
thi'ough  the  moisture ;  and  finally  the  peace  of  a  clear  moon- 
light night. 

"A  most  excellent  idea!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Gifi^ord,  at  once. 
' '  Why,  that  is  how  one  becomes  familiar  with  a  place !  Why 
has  no  one  done  that  before  ?  No  one  wants  any  more  vari- 
ety than  that — indeed,  it  shows  all  the  more  what  skill  the  art- 
ist has  when  he  can  do  without  fresh  materials.  My  dear  fel- 
low, you  may  praise  those  as  much  as  ever  you  like.  They 
are  the  best  thing  I  have  seen  in  the  exhibition  yet,  except 
your  wife's  portrait.  Praise  them  as  you  like ;  I  sha'n't  inter- 
fere with  you." 

"But  you  know,"  Fitzgerald  said,  "there  will  be  a  scrim- 
mage amongst  the  critics,  just  as  there  was  last  year.  Now 
don't  let  the  Liberal  Review  in  for  anything  rash.  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do:  suppose  we  appeal;  suppose  we  take  the 
opinion  of  a  thoroughly  skilled  artist  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit.  On  that  theory  you  would  have  me  allow 
poets  to  review  other  poets'  poems,  and  novel-writers  to  re- 
view other  people's  novels,  and  so  on.  Would  that  be  fair  ? 
We  have  set  our  faces  against  it  since  ever  the  Liberal  Re- 
view was  started." 

"And  yet  it  seems  to  me  the  only  opinion  Avorth  having," 
Fitzgerald  ventured  to  say,  ' '  if  you  can  make  sure  it  is  Avith- 
out  bias.  Who  can  decide  any  tiling  about  any  art  who  has 
not  shown  that  he  has  mastered  its  technicalities  ?  Surely  the 
valuable  opinion  is  that  of  a  man  who  knows  the  art;  who  is 
liimsolf  a  proficient;  and  who  is  so  far  above  everybody  else 
that  jealousy  or  envy  is  out  of  the  question." 

"And  do  you  expect  the  Liberal  Revieiv  to  pay  men  like 
that—" 

"Oh,  I  was  not  talking  about  writing  at  all,"  Fitzgerald 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "I  was  talking  about  these  pictures. 
Now  I  would  take  the  opinion  of  Sydciiliam  l)efore  any  other. 
He  is  far  beyond  rivalry;  he  can  paint  landscape  just  a.s  well 
as  portraits,  and  nobody  can  come  ncai-  him  in  cilhcr — " 


388  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"He  is  too  good-natured;  lie  finds  good  in  everything," Mr. 
Gifford  objected.  "I  have  walked  round  the  Academy  with 
Sydenham.  Not  a  word  of  objection  anywhere;  always  the 
best  points  picked  out;  the  difficulties  explained  to  you;  al- 
ways praise,  especially  if  the  picture  is  by  one  of  the  younger 
men;  always  encouragement  —  very  good-natured,  but  not 
criticism.  No;  I  propose  that  if  there  is  to  be  any  appeal,  it 
will  be  to  your  wife,  for  she  knows  the  place.  Mrs.  Fitzger- 
ald, we  want  your  opinion  of  Mr.  Eoss's  landscapes." 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,"  said  the  tall  young  lady  in  the  wall- 
flower and  daffodil  gown;  "I  want  to  buy  them,  and  can't  af- 
ford it." 

"Well,  that  is  an  honest  criticism, "  Mr.  Gifford  said.  "I 
think,  Fitzgerald,  you  may  let  the  Liberal  Revieio  speak  well 
of  the  Boat  of  Garry  studies.     But  where  is  Ross  himself  ?" 

"He  won't  come  into  this  room.  He  says  it  is  like  having 
himself  put  into  a  frame,  and  people  examining  him  with  a 
microscope." 

But  now  they  had  to  set  to  work  to  go  through  the  galleries 
systematically  and  seriously,  though  that  was  often  interrupt- 
ed by  the  arrival  of  a  fresh  batch  of  friends  who  wei'e  all  of 
them  anxious  to  see  the  portrait  of  Mary  Clietwj'nd  (as  some 
of  them  still  called  her),  which  had  been  painted  by  Mr.  Syd- 
enham, and  which  was  supposed  to  be  the  chief  ornament  of 
one  of  the  rooms.  They  were  joined  by  Mr.  Ross,  moreover, 
whose  remarks,  if  somewhat  disjointed  and  dogmatic,  were 
generally  to  the  point. 

' '  That  fellow  ?"  he  said,  regarding  the  work  of  an  artist 
who  had  obviously  spent  an  enormous  amount  of  care  in  con- 
structing an  allegory  (but  the  conundrum  was  difficult  of  so- 
lution until  you  tixrned  to  the  title  in  the  catalogue).  "That 
felloAV?  Look  at  the  thrawn  necks!  look  at  the  sham  senti- 
ment! That  fellow?  he  would  get  painted  tin  flowers  to  put 
on  his  mother's  grave.  There,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  full- 
length  portrait  of  Fitzgei'ald's  wife  that  hung  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  "Look  at  that  now.  That  is  painted  by  a  man 
who  knows  that  it  is  his  business  to  paint,  and  no  to  bother  his 
head  with  the  twelfth  century,  or  the  fifteenth  century,  or  any 
other.  Long  ago  he  shook  off  the  corpse-cloths;  you  canna 
bind  a  giant  in  spider-webs.     There's  just  nothing  that  man 


IN  A  GALLERY.  391 

can  not  paint:  put  it  before  him — a  young  lady's  face,  a  bit  of 
moorland,  a  collie  dog — no  matter  what  it  is — put  it  before 
him,  and  then  you  find  the  master-hand  getting  it  on  to  the 
canvas  with  a  power  and  a  carelessness  that  has  grown  out  o' 
the  anxiety  and  hard  work  of  a  lifetime — the  details  that  tell 
in,  the  details  that  are  of  no  use  out.  Look  at  that  fan  for 
color  now — the  sharp  line  in  the  dusk  of  the  dress.  Look  at 
the  eyes :  they're  no  saying :  '  What  do  ye  think  of  me  ?  Am  I 
looking  my  best  ?  Am  I  standing  right  ?'  They're  saying : 
'Here  I  am.  I  am  in  the  world  as  well  as  you.  I  could  speak 
to  you  if  I  liked. '  People  tliink  he  is  careless ;  I  say  that  he  is 
careless  about  what  is  non-essential ;  but  many  a  hard  struggle 
it  took  him  to  find  out  that.  Would  they  like  him  to  labor  the 
thing,  so  they  could  count  the  pins  in  the  pin-cushion  ?" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Fitzgerald,"  said  a  voice  behind  them,  "I 
must  really  beg  and  entreat  of  you  to  come  away." 

They  turned  and  found  before  them  Mr.  Sydenham  himself, 
and  also  his  pretty  wife,  whom  Fitzgerald  had  in  by-gone  days 
endeavored  to  bribe  with  sandwiches. 

"Is  it  fair?"  said  he.  "Is  it  the  act  of  a  Christian  woman 
to  stand  opposite  my  paint,  and  show  people  the  difference? 
And  you  just  back  from  Italy,  too,  with  the  Neapolitan  sun  on 
your  cheeks  ?" 

"I  was  listening  to  a  lecture,  Mr.  Sydenham,"  said  she. 
"Mr.  Ross  was  delivering  a  lecture ;  and  you  would  have  been 
pleased  if  you  had  heard." 

"Is  it  to  be  'claw  me,  and  I'll  claw  thee,' then?"  said  the 
famous  Academician,  with  a  good-natured  smile.  "There's 
nothing  in  these  rooms  to  beat  your  fine  Irish  sketches,  Mr. 
Ross." 

"It's  no  a  claw  I  want  from  ye,  sir,"  said  John  Ross,  grim- 
ly. "It's  a  ' scratch,'  when  some  decent  fellow  some  day  puts 
me  up  for  an  Associate.  It  is  what  everybody  looks  for,  I  sup- 
])ose;  though  I  jalouse  there'll  be  more  gray  nor  red  in  my 
beard  by  that  time." 

"You  shall  have  my  '.scratch,' and  welcome;  and  I  hojje 
long  before  then,"  said  the  Academician;  and  then  again  ho 
begged  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  to  come  away  from  the  neighborhood 
of  her  portrait,  which  she  was  not  loath  to  do,  for  she  was  very 
hungry,  she  said,  and  one  o'clock  had  arrived. 


392  SHANDON  BELLS. 

Presently  Sir  Cyril  Smith  appeared  and  carried  the  party 
off  in  a  body — John  Ross  alone  seeming  shy  or  reluctant. 
But  he  was  very  soon  put  into  a  pleasant  humor  by  his  neigh- 
bor at  table,  who  happened  to  be  Mrs.  Sydenham,  who  said 
she  imagined  he  must  be  the  friend  on  whose  behalf  Fitzger- 
ald had  endeavored  to  bribe  her  with  sandwiches. 

"  That  was  no  use,"  said  he,  bluntly. 

"No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  this  pretty  woman,  with  a 
charming  smile.  "I  should  think  not,  indeed.  Not  sand- 
wiches. At  my  time  of  life  one  knows  better  than  to  eat 
sandwiches — " 

"I  wasna  thinking  of  that,  mum,"  said  Ross ;  "  I  was  think- 
ing your  husband  ought  not  to  be  bothered  with  any  such 
things.  A  man  that  can  paint  as  he  can  paint  should  have 
nothing  in  the  world  to  interfere  with  his  time  or  attention. 
If  he  wastes  a  day,  the  country  loses  just  so  much. " 

"Oh,  but  he  takes  great  interest  in  the  younger  men.  And 
I  am  very  glad  he  thinks  so  highly  of  your  pictures — it  was 
not  to  you  alone  he  said  that;  and— and,  of  course,  you  must 
be  proud  of  the  place  they  have  got." 

"  Oh,  ay,"  he  said ;  "the  tod  will  find  a  hole  somewhere — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?" 

But  as  he  did  not  answer — or  did  not  hear — she  went  on  to 
say  that  she  understood  he  was  again  going  to  Ireland  with 
the  Fitzgeralds;  and  they  were  going  early  this  year,  were 
they  not  ?  and  had  he  been  allowed  to  see  anything  of  the 
volume  of  poems  —  or  jjoetical  dramas  —  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
was  understood  to  have  finished  in  Italy,  and  that  was  now 
on  the  eve  of  publication  ?  John  Ross  answered  as  best  he 
could;  but  he  was  getting  rather  discontented;  for  there  was 
nothing  to  drink  at  this  needlessly  sumptuous  repast  but  thin 
cold  wine.  At  last,  however,  he  said  to  the  servant  who  was 
in  vain  tempting  him  with  various  decanters, 

"I  say,  my  man,  could  you  get  me  a  wee  droppie  o' 
whiskey  V 

"Yes,  sir;  certainly,  sir." 

And  after  that  Mr.  Ross  proved  a  far  more  i^leasant  com- 
panion, and  gave  Mrs.  Sydenham  such  a  picture  of  the  life  at 
Boat  of  Garry,  and  such  graphic  accounts  of  the  exploits  of 
himself  and  his  friends  there,  that  she  said  that  nothing  but 


IN  A  GALLERY.  393 

his  description  of  the  demon  steam-yacht  detei'red  lier  from 
begging  for  an  invitation  there  and  then. 

After  luuclieon  there  was  a  movement  to  return  to  the  pic- 
tures ;  and  Fitzgerald  seized  the  opportunity  to  bid  them  good- 
day. 

"Where  are  you  oflf  to  now  ?"  his  wife  asked. 

"I  want  to  overhaul  one  or  two  of  the  libraries,  if  there's 
time  before  dinner." 

"  Let  me  go  with  you." 

"  In  that  dress  ?  You  would  be  a  pretty  spectacle  in  Shore- 
ditch." 

"  I  could  remain  in  the  hansom." 

"Get  away  with  you.  You  are  off  duty;  you  are  a  help- 
less invalid,  though  you  don't  look  it.  Stay  with  Mrs.  Sj'd- 
enham,  and  see  your  friends.  My  shooting-coat  isn't  swell 
enough  for  that." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.      "When  shall  you  be  home  ?" 

"  At  a  quarter  to  seven,  whatever  happens.  I  left  word 
there  would  be  an  enormous  table  d'hote,  so  you  can  seize 
hold  of  all  the  nice  peojjle.  Don't  forget  John  Ross;  don't 
lose  sight  of  him.  We  will  make  John  Ross  the  occasion, 
and  we  will  get  him  to  make  a  speech." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind;  I  won't  have  anybody 
tortured.     Shall  I  ask  the  Gitfoi'ds  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  the  Sydenhams  ?" 

"If  they  have  not  had  enough  of  us  to-day  already.  Ask 
anybody  you  like  wlio  happens  to  be  disengaged.  It  is  Jolin 
Ross's  day;  let  him  have  a  triumph  in  the  evening." 

And  in  a  couple  of  minutes  thereafter  lie  was  in  a  liaiisoni, 
making  for  Commercial  Road  East,  and  striving  to  extract  a 
few  items  of  intelligence  from  that  morning's  newspaper, 
which  he  had  not  before  had  time  to  glance  over. 

17* 


394  SHANDON  BELLS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

AT  INISHEEN. 

And  again  we  will  let  a  few  more  years  go  by,  bringing  us 
to  quite  the  other  clay,  in  fact.  At  a  window  of  a  room  in  the 
Imperial  Hotel  at  Inisheen  a  small  boy,  apparently  about  eight 
or  nine,  is  standing  regarding  the  carriage  and  pair  below 
which  ai'e  being  led  off  to  the  stable-yard.  He  is  a  good-look- 
ing little  lad,  with  large,  soft,  pensive  eyes,  a  square  forehead, 
and  curly  hair ;  a  healthy-looking  little  chap  too,  though  one 
foot  is  off  the  ground,  and  he  is  sujiporting  himself  with  a 
stick.     To  him  enters  his  father. 

' '  Well,  Master  Frank,  shall  you  be  able  to  amuse  yourself 
while  I  go  out  for  a  stroll  ?  You  see  what  comes  of  climbing 
after  wood-pigeons'  nests." 

"A  good  job,  too,"  I'emarked  the  small  boy,  with  com- 
I)lacency. 

' '  What  is  ?     Spraining  your  ankle  ?" 

"Yes.  You  wouldn't  have  brought  me  with  you  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that,  papa.  Mamma  said  you  were  very  busy. 
And  I  wasn't  to  interfere  with  you.  I  was  to  take  great  care 
not  to  be  a  ti'ouble  to  you,  she  said,  for  you  liked  to  be  alone 
when  you  were  finishing  a  book,  and  I  wasn't  to  mind  if  you 
left  me  by  myself.     And  I  don't  mind  a  bit." 

He  glanced  round  the  room. 

"And  is  this  really  the  inn  that  your  papa  kept  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is;  perhaps  you  don't  think  much  of  it?" 

"Well,"  said  the  small  boy,  with  delicacy,  not  wishing  to 
wound  his  father's  feelings,  "it  isn't  very  swell,  is  it  ?" 

' '  When  I  was  a  boy,  my  lad,  it  was  the  only  hotel  in  Ini- 
sheen, and  it  was  regarded  as  a  i^lace  of  importance.  See,  here 
are  your  books.  You'd  better  sit  down  for  a  while,  and  give 
your  foot  a  rest." 

"  I  like  the  stories  you  tell  better  than  those  in  the  books," 
remarked  Master  Frank,  regarding  the  volumes  with  anything 
but  favor,  "only  mamma  says  I  ought  never  to  believe  them." 


AT  INISHEEN.  395 

"  Which,  though  ?" 

"The  stories  you  tell.  Mamma  says  you  are  always  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  people.  Was  it  true,  papa,  ahout  the  man  who 
went  to  India  ?" 

"Really  there  are  so  many  people  go  to  India  that  I  have 
forgotten." 

"  But  the  man  who  went  out  to  India,  and  he  pretended  to 
have  a  sunstroke;  and  then,  when  he  came  back,  he  was  al- 
lowed to  do  anything  he  liked,  for  his  friends  were  afraid  of 
bringing  it  on  again,  and  the  police  always  let  him  off,  because 
he  had  been  mad;  and  he  lived  such  a  merry  life.  Was  that 
true,  papa  V 

"Well,  if  it  had  not  happened,  how  would  people  have 
known  anything  about  it  ?"  was  the  evasive  reply.  ' '  Now  take 
a  book,  and  put  your  foot  up  on  a  chair,  while  I  go  and  see  if 
there's  anybody  in  the  place  I  know  now.  I  don't  suppose 
there  will  be,  since  Andy  the  Hopper —  Do  you  remember  the 
sketch  of  him  that  Mr.  Ross  made  for  you  one  night  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  papa." 

* '  Well,  he  is  away  at  Tramore  now,  they  say ;  and  I  doubt 
whether  there  is  a  human  being  I  know  now  in  the  town." 

And  yet,  when  he  went  out  into  the  sunlight,  this  older  i)art 
of  Inisheen  did  not  seem  to  have  changed  much  during  the 
last  seven  years.  If  there  was  any  difference,  it  lay  rather 
between  the  Inisheen  that  he  was  accustomed  to  dream  about 
and  this  present,  every-day,  rather  commonplace  Inisheen. 
This  was  the  second  time  he  had  visited  the  little  town  since 
finally  he  had  left  it  for  London,  and  on  each  occasion  the 
same  rectification  had  to  be  made.  Yes ;  there  were  the  quiet, 
respectable-looking  houses,  and  the  shops,  and  the  town-hall ; 
the  wharves  and  quays,  Avith  tar-barrels  and  coals;  the  barks 
and  brigantines  straiided  on  the  mud ;  and  the  broad  waters 
of  the  bay,  and  the  sunny  green  of  the  hills  beyond.  To  get 
a  wider  view  he  climbed  up  the  face  of  the  steep  slope  on 
which  the  town  is  partly  built;  there  were  cottages  here  and 
there  apparently  clinging  hazardously  to  the  ascent;  frag- 
ments of  old  ruins  cropping  up;  cocks  and  hens  (luttoring 
among  the  dust  or  hiding  anujiig  the  nettles;  children  clam- 
bering over  walls  toj^ped  with  marjoram;  and  an  old  gentle- 
man, in  a  jacket  without  sleeves,  fast  asleep  in  a  damp  and 


396  SHANDON   BELLS. 

shady  angle  of  a  garden  wall  which  was  profuse  with  moss 
and  hart's-tongue  fern.  Then  he  came  to  the  inclosures  round 
the  houses  of  the  richer  people — on  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
amid  gardens  and  lush  meadows;  and  from  this  height  he 
could  look  down  on  the  picturesque  little  harbor,  and  the  rip- 
pling green  waters  of  the  bay,  and  the  wide  sand-banks  left 
exposed  by  the  tide ;  and  also  on  the  far  expanse  of  sea,  pale 
and  blue  in  the  hazy  sunlight,  with  one  or  two  dots  of  ships 
apparently  making  slowly  in  for  the  tiny  poi^t  before  a  gentle 
southerly  breeze. 

He  felt  so  much  of  a  stranger  here !  No  doubt,  if  he  were 
to  go  through  the  shops  down  there,  he  might  discover  this 
one  or  that  who  would  jDcrhaps  recognize  Master  Willie ;  and 
no  doubt,  if  he  were  away  up  over  the  hills  there  ("  tlie  mount- 
ain," they  called  them),  he  could  find  a  cabin  or  two  where  he 
would  be  welcomed  by  some  aguish  old  crone  with  many  a 
"  Glory  be  to  God !"  But  of  his  old  intimates,  as  he  had  learn- 
ed from  time  to  time,  there  was  scarcely  one  left.  His  father 
had  died  many  years  before.  Why,  even  the  Cork  Chronicle, 
which  the  Inisheen  people  used  to  take  in  chiefly  because 
Master  Willie  put  his  poetry  about  Inisheen,  and  his  songs 
and  palaverings  about  the  Inisheen  girls,  into  it,  existed  no 
longer.  When  he  drove  up  to  the  Imperial,  the  very  hos- 
tler who  took  the  horses  had  never  heard  of  the  Fitzgeralds 
who  once  had  the  place.  And  yet,  as  he  looked  at  the  quays 
and  the  houses  and  the  harbor,  Inisheen  did  not  seem  to  have 
changed  so  much.  It  was  he  who  was  changed;  and  some- 
thing else — was  it  his  youth,  or  a  remembrance  of  his  youth, 
that,  whether  he  thought  of  it  or  not,  was  always  haunting 
him,  and  making  Inisheen  look  sti'ange  ? — seemed  now  far 
away. 

He  wandered  down  from  this  height,  thinking  he  would  go 
and  have  a  look  at  the  newer  Inisheen  that  faced  the  sea.  As 
he  was  walking  along  the  main  thoroughfare  of  the  older  town 
— perhaps  not  noticing  much — and  i^assing  one  of  the  side 
streets  leading  to  the  quays,  he  heard  an  exclamation  behind 
him, 

"  The  Lord  be  marciful  to  us!" 

He  turned  instantly,  and  recognized  old  Molly,  who  for  in- 
numerable years  had  sold  nuts  and  apples  and  oranges  to  the 


AT  miSHEEN.  397 

boys  of  Inisheen.  The  old  woman  struggled  up  from  the  bar- 
rel on  which  she  was  sitting. 

'*Och,  God  help  us  all,  "tis  yourself,  Masther  Willie!"  she 
said,  and  she  seized  his  hand  with  her  long  skinny  fingers. 
"  Och,  'tis  the  great  gintleman  you  are  now,  wid  your  horses 
and  your  carriages  riding  through  the  town.  Shure  I  thought 
'twas  yoursilf,  Masther  Willie ;  and  then  I  thought  'twas  nan- 
sinse ;  and  shure  you're  come  to  take  the  place  your  father  had 
before  ye — his  sowl's  in  glory,  amin ! — oh,  wirasthrue,  but  me 
back  is  broke  wid  the  could  nights — and  yer  honor's  coming 
back  to  the  Impayrial  now;  and  you'll  have  a  good  word  for 
ovild  Molly  wid  the  sarvints — " 

He  had  to  explain  to  the  ancient  Molly — whose  aspect,  by- 
the-way,  would  have  been  more  venerable  had  her  gray  hair 
been  less  dishevelled,  and  had  she  worn  a  dress  more  appro- 
priate to  her  age  and  sex  than  an  old  soldier's  jacket,  the  scarlet 
of  which  had  got  sadly  faded  through  exposure  to  wind  and 
weather — that  he  had  no  intention  of  re-establi.shing  the  Fitz- 
geralds  in  the  Imperial  Hotel ;  and  then  he  pi*esented  her  with 
all  the  silver  he  could  find  in  his  pockets,  and  passed  on. 

How  often  he  had  walked  along  this  very  road,  in  the  far  by- 
gone days,  with  the  eager  ambitions  and  wild  desires  of  youth 
busy  with  the  future !  And  now  that  he  had  attained  to  al- 
most everything  he  had  dreamed  of — in  certain  dii-ections  to 
far  more  than  ever  he  had  dreamed  of — to  wliat  did  it  all 
amount  ?  Well,  he  had  made  many  friends,  known  and  un- 
known, and  that  was  pleasant;  and  he  strove  to  z*emain  on 
kindly  terms  with  them,  and  to  do  what  little  he  could,  in  the 
way  of  writing,  if  that  might  be  of  any  service  to  them,  in  as 
thorough  and  honest  a  fashion  as  was  possi])le.  But,  so  far  as 
he  could  see,  there  was  not  anytliing  in  life  much  belter  than 
showing  a  picture-book  to  a  sick  child,  or  some  such  simple  act 
of  benevolence  or  charity;  and  in  this  respect  he  had  entirely 
adopted  tlie  views  of  his  wife.  Neither  he  nor  she  was  con- 
cerned about  the  motives  that  might  l>e  im])uted  to  them.  If 
it  was  a  luxury,  they  could  alford  it.  If  it  was  self-p^ratifica- 
tion,  at  least  it  did  not  harm  others.  If  it  was  oulraj^ing  the 
j)rinciples  of  political  economy,  the  principles  of  ])<)liti('al 
economy  would  have  to  look  out  for  themselves.  In  short, 
both  he  and  she,  as  it  turned  out,  found  themselves  witli  so 


398  SHANDON  BELLS. 

many  things  to  do  that  they  really  had  no  time  to  sit  down 
and  construct  analyses  of  the  Moral  Faculty. 

This  newer  Inisheen  outfronting  the  sea  was  more  changed 
than  the  older  part  of  the  town,  for  a  number  of  new-looking 
villas  had  been  added — most  likely  the  summer  residences  of 
the  Cork  people.  But  it  was  pleasanter  for  him  to  turn  his 
back  on  these,  and  find  before  him  the  old  familiar  picture ; 
the  spacious  view  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  conjuring  up 
before  his  mental  vision  whenever  he  wanted  to  introduce  a 
sense  of  light  and  width — and  perhaps  a  touch  of  solitariness— 
into  his  writing.  Solitary  enough  it  was.  Nothing  but  the 
level  miles  of  pale  brown  sand,  and  the  vast  extent  of  glassy 
pale  blue  sea,  and  between  these  the  long  thin  lines  of  the  rip- 
ples that  came  in  and  in,  darkening  in  shadow,  until  suddenly 
there  was  a  gleam  of  silver,  thin  as  the  edge  of  a  knife,  and 
then  a  curling  over  of  white  foam  sparkling  in  the  sun,  and  the 
protracted  ' '  hs — ss—ss''  as  the  wave  broke  along  the  shore.  A 
pale  and  placid  picture ;  perhaps  a  trifle  sad  also ;  for  with  such 
a  faint  and  fair  background  the  mind  is  apt  to  set  to  work  to 
put  in  figures — and  these  would  be  walking  along  the  sand, 
naturally;  and  they  might  be  young,  and  dreaming  dreams. 

Then  he  recollected  the  poor  chap  with  the  sprained  ankle ; 
and  so  he  turned  and  walked  leisurely  back  to  the  hotel,  dis- 
covering, when  he  got  there,  that  Master  Frank  had  been  en- 
gaged the  while  in  carving  his  name  in  bold  letters  on  one  of 
the  window-shutters. 

"When  I  grow  up,  papa,"  said  he,  contemplating  this  tenta- 
tive effort  at  immortality,  "I  hope  I  shall  be  famous  like  you." 

"Who  told  you  I  was  famous?"  his  father  said,  with  a 
laugh. 

' '  Mamma.  I  wish  I  could  get  such  nice  letters  from  people 
you  don't  know ;  from  America,  and  Canada,  and  as  far  away 
as  where  Eobinson  Crusoe  lived.  Sometimes  mamma  reads 
them  to  me.  What  did  you  do  to  make  the  Queen  call  you 
'  well-beloved'  ?" 

"  What  nonsense  has  got  into  your  head  now  ?" 

" No,  it  is  not," said  Master  Frank,  pertinaciously.  "Mam- 
ma read  it  out  of  a  big  book.  The  Queen  said  you  were  '  trusty 
and  well-beloved.'" 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing.     Don't  you  know,  when  the  Queen 


AT  INISHEEN.  39& 

appoints  you  a  Royal  Commissioner  to  inquire  into  anything, 
that  is  the  phrase  she  uses  ?  I  suppose  your  mamma  had  got 
hold  of  that  Blue-book — •'' 

"  But  the  Queen  would  not  say  so  unless  she  meant  it.  She 
doesn't  tell  lies,  does  she  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  not.  Well,  Master  Frank,  until  you  are 
older  we  will  postpone  the  subject,  and  in  the  mean  time  we  will 
liave  some  tea.  I  suppose  you  are  aware  that  you  may  have 
late  dinner  with  me  to-night  ?" 

"Just  as  you  please,  papa.  Mamma  said  I  was  not  to 
trouble  you." 

"  And  you  have  remembered  j'our  lesson  very  well.  In  con- 
sideratiou  of  which  I  will  tell  you  a  story." 

"Oh,  will  you  ?"  and  immediately  the  small  lad  hobbled 
across  from  the  window  to  his  father's  knee,  looking  up  with 
his  big  girlish-looking  eyes  full  of  expectation.  For  the  stories 
liis  papa  told  were  far  more  wonderful  than  anythmg  to  be 
found  in  books. 

"Not  only  that,  but  it  is  the  story  of  a  bull !" 

"A  very  wild  one  ?" 

"  A  fearfully  wild  one." 

There  was  a  sort  of  sigh  of  delight. 

"Well,  this  bull  used  to  roam  about  just  behind  this  very 
town  of  Inisheen;  and  it  is  very  open  there — plenty  of  bog- 
land — and  he  could  see  you  from  a  great  distance;  and  he'd 
come  stalking  along  the  road,  right  in  the  middle,  and  allow 
no  one  to  pass.  And  he  was  especially  savage  with  boys;  and 
you  wouldn't  believe  the  roundabout  ways  we  had  to  take — " 

"Oh,  were  you  one  of  them,  j)apa  ?" 

"I  was  alive  tlien,"  the  story-teller  conliiiu(Hl,  evasively, 
"  and  I  may  have  looked  on  and  seen  what  the  other  boys  did. 
But  the  terrible  business  about  this  beast  was  that  he  could  ]i<)p 
over  a  wall  with  the  greatest  ease ;  and  it  was  no  use  shutting 
a  gate  on  him  if  he  meant  to  be  after  you.  He  was  a  terror 
to  the  whole  district,  es])ccia]ly  to  the  boys;  and  we  iised  to 
get  angry — I  moan  thoy  used  to  get  angry — and  wonder  wliat 
tliey  would  do  to  the  bull  if  only  tlioy  could  got  the  chance. 
Then  at  last  one  of  us — one  of  tliem — hit  on  a  ])lan.  They 
went  carefully  along  the  road  and  picked  out  a  place  whore  the 
bog  came  close  up,  and  where  there  were  just  two  or  throe 


400  SHANDON  BELLS. 

clumps  of  moss,  so  that  you  could  cross  over  if  you  went  light- 
ly and  watched  your  footing.  Of  course  you  remember  what 
Bruce  did  at  Bannockburu." 

"He  dug  pits  and  covered  tliem  over." 

"  Precisely.  Well,  then,  this  was  a  sort  of  ambuscade  like 
that.  I  don't  think  ambuscade  is  the  right  word ;  but  it's  good 
enough  for  a  bull.     Well,  then,  the  next  thing  the  boys  did — " 

"But  you  were  one  of  them,  papa  ?" 

"  I  might  be  looking  on.  I  might  have  gone  round  by  the 
bog  that  day.  At  all  events  they  went  to  a  person  called  Andy 
the  Hopper  that  I've  often  told  you  about ;  and  Andy  was  a 
curious-minded  creature,  who  always  liked  to  have  red  sleeves, 
when  he  could  afford  it,  to  his  jacket;  and  they  got  the  loan  of 
an  old  jacket  with  the  red  sleeves,  and  they  spread  that  out  on 
two  sticks,  and  away  they  went  along  the  road.  And  there, 
sure  enough,  was  the  bull.  He  didn't  say  anything ;  he  only 
looked.  Then  they  went  on,  cautiously,  until  they  were  with- 
in a  certain  distance ;  and  there  they  stopped.  The  bull  didn't 
move.  Then  they  began  to  retreat  a  little — and  you  must 
know.  Master  Frank,  that  a  bull  always  understands  that  as 
an  invitation  for  him  to  come  and  chivy  you.  The  bull  came 
on  a  bit,  stopped  for  a  second,  then  gave  a  loud  bellow,  and 
then  came  on  faster.  This  was  jirecisely  what  those  wicked 
boys  wanted.  For  now  they  turned  and  took  to  their  heels, 
and  the  bull  came  careering  after  them ;  and  then,  at  the  spot 
they  had  marked,  they  left  the  road,  and  went  hopping  across 
the  bog,  that  was  very  wet  at  that  time,  for  there  had  been 
much  rain.  Very  well,  then,  you  see,  when  the  bull  came 
tearhig  along,  he  had  no  notion  of  a  strateg}^,  or  an  ambuscade, 
or  anything  of  that  kind ;  and  he  did  not  stop  to  consider  that 
he  was  far  heavier  than  a  boy,  and  that  his  sharp  hard  feet 
w^ould  sink  where  theirs  would  just  touch  the  little  dry  clumps ; 
and  so  in  he  went  with  a  splash  and  a  struggle — and  another 
splash  and  a  struggle — and  another  splash  and  another  struggle 
— always  getting  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  thick  black  mud, 
and  bellowing  and  roaring  with  rage.  You  never  saw  any- 
thing like  it.  Mind  you,  when  we  stopped  and  looked,  I  won't 
say  we  weren't  a  little  bit  frightened ;  for  if  one  of  his  fore- 
legs had  got  hold  of  a  piece  of  good  solid  ground,  we  might 
have  had  another  run  for  it,  and  he'd  have  knocked  the  whole 


AT  INISHEEN.  401 

town  to  smithereens  before  he'd  have  stopped.  After  a  long 
time,  however,  he  gave  it  up.  He  found  his  struggles  useless ; 
and  when  he  bellowed  it  wasn't,  '  Wait  till  I  catch  you !'  it  was, 
'  Who's  going  to  get  me  out?'  " 

"Papa,"  said  Master  Frank,  thoughtfully,  "  could  you  have 
got  near  him  then  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  dare  say.     He  was  stuck  fast." 

"  You  could  have  got  near  him  in  safety  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  think  so,"  answered  the  father,  not  doubting 
that  the  boy,  who  had  been  taught  to  be  kind  to  all  animals, 
had  imagined  some  way  of  getting  the  poor  bull  out  of  his 
troubles. 

"Then  didn't  you  get  a  big  stick  and  beat  him  over  the 
head  ?"  said  Master  Frank,  eagerly. 

"Well,  no,"  said  the  papa,  a  little  disappointed.  "But  I'll 
tell  you  what  happened :  it  took  nearly  half  the  people  of  Ini- 
sheen  to  get  that  bull  out ;  for  they  were  all  afraid  to  go  and 
fasten  the  ropes ;  and  when  it  did  get  on  to  dry  land  again  it 
seemed  anxious  to  reduce  the  population  of  the  neighborhood. 
I  don't  think  I  saw  that,"  the  narrator  added,  demurely. 

"You  didn't  wait  to  see  it  hauled  out  ?"  said  Master  Frank, 
with  staring  eyes. 

"No.  You  see,  Frankie,  there  were  a  lot  of  wicked  boys 
about  the  place,  and  the  people  suspected  they  had  inveigled 
the  bull  into  the  bog;  and  supposing  I  had  been  about  just 
at  that  time— looking  on,  you  know — well,  they  might  have 
thought  I  had  had  a  hand  in  it,  and  one  might  have  got  into 
trouble.  It's  always  the  best  plan  to  keep  away  when  you 
see  a  scrimmage  going  on.  The  most  innocent  people  are 
sometimes  suspected.     Never  you  go  near  crowds." 

Master  Frank  thought  over  this  story  for  some  time,  and 
then  he  said,  in  an  absent  kind  of  way, 

"I  believe  it  was  you  yourself,  papa,  that  teased  the  bull 
into  the  bog." 

They  had  late  dinner  together  in  the  evening,  and  no  doubt 
it  was  that  circumstance  that  ))rovoked  Master  Frank  into  un- 
usual animation  and  talkativeness,  in  the  coui*se  of  which  lie 
unlocked  many  a  dark  and  secret  cupboard  of  his  mind  where 
he  had  stored  away  subjects  or  remarks  for  subsefpient  exam- 
ination.    He  startled  his  father,  for  example,  by  suddenly,  and 


402  SHANDON  BELLS. 

ft  propos  of  notlaing,  asking  him  how  it  was  possible  for  a 
man  to  have  three  grandmothers. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  his  father  said. 

"Why,  don't  you  remember,  papa,  the  organ-grinder  com- 
ing to  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  playing  '  The  Last  Rose  of 
Summer'  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  recollect  that  remarkable  circumstance.  I 
suppose  he  didn't  remain  very  long  ?" 

"But  don't  you  remember  you  asked  mamma  what  sort  of 
a  man  he  could  have  been  who  first  twisted  the  air  abovit  with 
variations ;  and  then  you  began  and  told  me  all  that  you  hoped 
had  happened  to  him  when  he  was  alive  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  remember  that  either." 

"And  you  said  you  hoped  he  had  three  grandmothers,  and 
never  knew  what  his  name  was,  because  they  kept  bothering 
him." 

"I  am  not  quite  sure;  but  I  think  we  must  have  been  talk- 
ing nonsense,  Frankie." 

"And  mamma  said  you  had  invented  enough  evil  things 
for  him,  and  you  might  turn  to  the  men  who  were  cutting  the 
tails  off  cattle  and  shooting  at  people  here  in  Ireland." 

' '  The  less  you  say  about  that  the  better.  Master  Frank,  for 
in  this  part  of  the  country  walls  have  ears." 

"I  know,"  said  Master  Frank,  confidently,  "that  mamma 
will  be  very  glad  when  you  have  done  with  the  fishing,  and 
we  all  go  back  to  England  again." 

"  Nonsense!" 

"But  I  heai'd  her  say  so,  papa!" 

"She  was  having  a  little  joke  with  you.  Master  Frank. 
You  don't  understand  these  dee^)  questions  yet,  my  lad. 
Don't  you  know  that  I  am  not  a  landlord,  nor  an  English- 
man, nor  one  who  pays  rent  ?  So  you  see  I  can't  do  any- 
thing wrong ;  and  we  are  as  safe  at  Boat  of  Garry  as  in  Hyde 
Park." 

"I  know  mamma  does  not  like  you  to  go  away  fishing  by 
yourself,"  said  Master  Frank,  doggedly. 

"  But  do  I  ever  go  away  fishing  by  myself — or  did  I  ever  go 
away  fishing  by  myself  until  you  must  needs  set  about  spraining 
your  ankle  ?  And  supposing  there  were  any  of  these  rascals 
about  Boat  of  Garry,  which  there  are  not ;  and  supposing  they 


AT  INISHEEN.  403 

were  coming  stealing  along  on  tiptoe  when  I  wasn't  watch- 
ing; and  supposing  you  were  standing  by,  with  a  gaff  in  your 
hand,  and  a  gaflP  with  a  remarkably  shai'p  steel  point,  what 
then  ?  What  would  you  do  ?  You  can  lay  hold  of  a  salmon 
or  a  sea-trout  smartly  enough.  Could  you  catch  one  of  Cap- 
tain Moonlight's  men  by  the  ear  ?" 

The  boy  did  not  answer  that,  for  he  was  evidently  consider- 
ing something  with  much  cai'e.     At  last  he  said,  meditatively, 

"I  wish  you  were  the  king,  papa,  and  then  you  would  show 
the  rascals  something." 

' '  But  how  ?     What  should  1  do  ?" 

"Kill  the  whole  lot,"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

"Well,  that  would  teach  them  a  lesson,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

Dinner  over,  Fitzgerald  drew  in  his  chair  to  the  fire — more 
by  custom  than  for  warmth,  for  the  night  was  mild — and  lit  a 
cigar,  and  proceeded  to  look  over  a  newsj)aper.  This  last  per- 
formance was  a  sore  trial  for  the  patience  of  Master  Frank, 
who  doubtless  considered  that  it  would  have  been  much  more 
sensible  to  devote  the  time  to  a  discussion  of  the  affairs  of  the 
country  between  two  congenial  minds.  As  for  himself,  he 
scorned  to  seek  refuge  in  books.  Not  having  two  legs  that 
he  could  twist  about  the  chairs  in  his  usual  fashion,  he  put 
the  one  at  his  disposal  into  every  conceivable  attitude,  until 
he  nearly  succeeded  in  tilting  the  table  over  with  his  foot; 
then  he  tied  a  bit  of  string  to  a  tea-spoon,  and  twitched,  to  see 
if  it  would  spin  like  a  spoon-bait;  then  he  got  out  his  pocket- 
knife,  and  slowly  and  carefully  sharpened  the  edge  on  the 
boards  of  a  book,  finishing  up  by  carving  his  initials  thereon, 
just  to  try  the  point,  as  it  were;  and  then,  as  time  went  on,  he 
grew  suspicious. 

"Papa,"  said  he,  "you  are  not  going  out,  are  you?" — for 
indeed  Fitzgerald  had  once  or  twice  gone  to  the  window  and 
glanced  outside. 

"If  I  do,"  his  father  said,  "  it  won't  make  any  diirercuce. 
It  will  soon  be  time  for  you  to  be  off  to  bed.  I  may  go  out, 
but  I  shall  not  be  long,  and  j'^ou  will  be  sound  asleep." 

Nothing  more  was  said  for  a  wliile,  Master  Frank  being  en- 
gaged in  drawing  a  portrait  of  Balbus  on  the  title-page  of  his 
Latin  grammar.     Tlien  he  said, 

"  Is  it  a  beautiful  night,  papa  ?" 


404  SHANDON  BELLS. 

"Oh  yes." 

Then  again, 

"  Is  it  a  very  beautiful  night,  papa  ?" 

"The  moon  must  be  getting  higher  now,"  his  father  said, 
going  to  the  window,  and  pushing  the  blind  aside.  "  Oh  yes, 
it  is  a  fine  enough  night." 

The  boy  got  hold  of  his  stick  and  hobbled  across  the  room. 

"Let  me  look,  pajja.  Oh,  isn't  it  a  beautiful  night!  What 
a  pity  it  is  we  can't  see  the  sea !" 

"Frank,"  said  his  father,  putting  his  hand  on  the  boy's 
head,  ' '  would  you  like  to  go  with  me  ?" 

He  looked  up  with  a  bright,  eager  look  of  assent  and  glad- 
ness ;  but  instantly,  with  a  great  deal  of  bravery,  he  shook  his 
head. 

"I  promised  mamma  not  to  bother  you,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"And — and  besides,  papa,  I  can't  walk." 

He  hung  down  his  head  a  little,  to  hide  the  tears  of  disap- 
pointment that  would  rise  to  his  eyes.  His  father  was  look- 
ing out  of  the  window,  and  did  not  notice.  But  presently  he 
said: 

"Poor  chap,  you've  had  rather  a  diill  afternoon.  Look 
here,  Frankie,  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do — as  sure  as  ever  was. 
The  horses  have  done  almost  nothing  to-day;  supposing  we 
were  to  get  the  carriage  round  ?  What  do  you  say  to  that  ? 
We'll  go  for  a  drive,  my  lad ;  and  then  you'll  not  only  see  the 
sea  in  moonlight,  but  the  bay  also,  and  a  wooded  glen  I  was 
going  to.     What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"Mamma  won't  be  angry  ?"  suggested  Master  Frank,  doubt- 
fully ;  but  it  was  clear  from  his  face  that  he  regarded  the  pro- 
j)osal  with  immense  delight. 

"We  will  buy  her  something,  Frankie,  to  pacify  her,  when 
we  get  back  to  Bantry.  Now  you  go  and  sit  down,  and  I  will 
get  hold  of  Murtough,  and  as  soon  as  we  can  we'll  have  the 
carriage  ready  for  you.  But  I  can  tell  you,  my  lad,  that 
wasn't  how  I  was  treated  when  I  was  a  boy;  there  were  no 
late  dinners  for  me,  or  a  cari'iage  to  take  me  out  for  a  dinve  in 
the  moonlight.  I  really  don't  know  what  this  generation  is 
coming  to." 

"But,  papa,  if  you  could  have  got  it  you  would  have  taken 
it?"  said  the  boy,  looking  up. 


AT  INISHEEN.  405 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  his  father  said,  as  he  put 
on  his  hat  and  coat.  "  That's  neither  here  nor  tliere.  What 
I  say  is  that  boys  nowadays  are  spoiled ;  and  especially  boys 
that  are  allowed  to  come  to  Boat  of  Garry  when  they  ought  to 
be  at  their  school  at  Campden  Hill,  and  still  niox'e  especially 
boys  whose  mothers  buy  for  them  a  twelve -foot  trout  rod 
before  they've  even  got  the  length  of  omnis  Gallia.  Now 
don't  you  attempt  to  go  down  those  stairs  till  I  come  and  fetch 
you." 

Fitzgerald  seemed  in  the  lightest  and  pleasantest  of  humoi's 
when  finally  he  and  his  small  boy  had  got  themselves  ensconced 
in  the  open  landau,  with  an  abundance  of  I'ugs  over  their 
knees.  He  had,  indeed,  been  loath  to  leave  the  little  chap  for 
a  second  time  that  day,  even  though  it  was  not  very  far  from 
his  bed-time ;  and  he  was  glad  to  give  him  this  unexpected  trip 
as  some  compensation  for  the  dullness  of  the  afternoon.  More- 
over, the  night  was  fine.  The  air  was  mild;  the  skies  clear; 
Inisheen  and  its  wide,  still  waters  looked  quite  picturesque  in 
the  moonlight. 

"And  what  would  you  say  now,  Master  Frank,"  his  papa 
asked,  as  they  drove  out  from  the  town  into  the  silence  of  the 
country,  "  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  had  a  tryst  with  the 
fairies  in  the  wooded  glen  I  told  you  about  V 

The  boy  looked  up;  he  seldom  knew  whether  his  father  was 
joking  or  in  earnest. 

"I  did  not  think  there  were  any  fairies  nowadays,"  was  the 
answer. 

"Well,"liis  father  continued,  "if  you  ever  make  a  try.st 
with  Don  Fierna  and  his  little  people  to  come  and  visit  them 
once  in  every  seven  years,  you  will  find  it  more  and  more  dif- 
ficult, as  you  grow  older  and  older,  to  li.sten  hard  enough  to 
liear  them  coming,  and  to  look  hard  enough  to  see  the  sides  of 
the  glen  opening  and  tlie  long  procession  a]i])earing.  Wlicn 
you  are  young  perhaps  it  is  a  little  easier.  Do  you  remember 
how  they  stole  away  Burd  Helen  into  Elfinland  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.     You  told  me  about  that." 

"Then  you  remember  tbatCliildo  Rowland  was  the  younge.st 
of  all  her  brothers.  Do  you  tliink  any  f)f  tlie  oklcr  (tncs  could 
ever  have  found  out  llie  dark  towf-r.  no  matter  liow  Moilin  \uAp- 
ed  them  ?    If  Chiklc  Rowland  Ii.n]  nut  Ii.hI  the  eyes  of  youth,  he 


406  SHANDON  BELLS. 

never  would  have  found  his  way;  and  I  believe  Burd  Helen 
would  have  been  in  the  dark  tower  still." 

"I  have  never  seen  any,"  was  the  small  lad's  practical  re- 
mark. 

"Well,  that  is  strange.  But  in  any  case  you  won't  mind 
waiting-  a  little  while  in  the  carriage,  when  we  get  to  the  glen, 
and  I  will  go  down  by  myself,  and  if  I  hear  or  see  anything  I 
will  come  back  and  tell  you." 

"Oh,  but  I  know  better  than  that,  papa,"  said  the  boy, 
shrewdly.  ' '  You  are  not  going  to  look  for  any  fairies.  When 
you  go  away  by  yourself,  it  is  to  watch  rabbits  and  other 
things,  and  write  about  them.  I  know  very  well.  Whenever 
mamma  sees  you  go  out  alone,  without  your  fishing-rod,  she 
always  calls  us  back." 

"Oh,  indeed.  But  then,  you  see,  Frankie,  you  were  never 
at  Inisheen  before ;  and  strange  things  used  to  happen  about 
here,  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  young;  and  I  don't  know 
what  may  not  be  seen  in  that  glen.  So  you  will  remain  in 
the  carriage  for  a  while,  when  we  get  there ;  and  if  I  sjjy  out 
the  fairies  down  in  the  hollow,  with  their  glow-worm  lamps, 
you  know,  I  sha'n't  say  a  single  word  to  them,  but  I'll  come 
back  to  the  road  at  once  and  whistle  for  you.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?" 

"That's  all  nonsense,  papa.     I  don't  believe  there  are  any." 

"Wait  and  see." 

At  length  they  arrived  at  a  portion  of  the  road  that  was 
shadowed  over  by  a  double  row  of  elm-trees;  and  here  Fitz- 
gerald called  on  Murtough  to  stop,  and  got  out,  leaving  Mas- 
ter Fi'ank  in  the  carriage. 

"Now  you  listen,  Frankie,"  said  he,  "and  when  I  whistle 
make  ready — " 

' '  I  could  not  go  down  into  that  glen  with  my  sprained  an- 
kle, papa,"  the  boy  said. 

"  People  never  know,"  said  he,  as  he  went  up  and  over  the 
little  bank  by  the  road-side,  ' '  what  they  can  do  when  they  see 
fairies  coming  along.     It  is  quite  an  event  in  one's  life." 

Indeed,  it  was  with  no  great  heaviness  of  heart,  no  very 
acute  anguish  of  remembrance,  that  he  now,  for  the  second 
time,  and  in  middle  age — that  is  to  say,  at  seven-and-thirty — 
went  to  keep  the  tryst  he  had  made  at  three-and-twenty.     It 


AT  INISHEEN.  407 

was  with  a  brisk  enough  step  that  he  crossed  the  open  ghxde, 
and  then  moi-e  cautiously  made  his  way  down  the  steep  hank, 
through  the  brush-wood,  until  once  more  he  stood  by  the  lit- 
tle scooped-out  hollow  in  the  rock,  into  which  the  water  fell 
with  a  continuous  mui^mur.  The  place  was  quite  unaltered.  It 
might  have  been  yesterday  that  he  and  Kitty  had  stood  there, 
with  their  hands  clasped,  before  he  rowed  her  away  back  to 
Inisheen.  It  might  have  been  yesterday  that  he  had  gone 
back  to  the  place  only  to  find  himself  standing  there  alone, 
conjuring  up  phantoms,  and  not  then  quite  so  reconciled  to  the 
fate  that  had  befallen  him. 

Yes ;  that  former  visit,  seven  years  before,  had  been  a  sharp- 
er thing.  It  seemed  to  him  that  then,  for  the  first  time,  he 
had  realized  what  this  separation  meant.  Our  other  griefs 
and  miseries  over  the  loss  of  our  loved  ones  who  go  away  from 
us  through  the  sad  portal  of  death,  keen  as  they  may  be,  are  in 
time  solaced  by  a  wistful  hope  of  reunion.  What  is  that  but 
a  temj)orary  separation,  if  they  are  awaiting  us  yonder,  with 
light  on  their  faces  ?  But  this  separation  from  one  who,  as 
we  think,  is  to  be  linked  with  us  through  this  brief  life,  and  in 
death,  and  in  the  further  life  beyond — that  seemed  to  him  the 
true  separation ;  and  the  breaking  down  of  faith ;  and  a  hope- 
lessness for  ever  and  ever.  Something  of  the  old  misery  bad 
come  back  on  him ;  the  old  pain  had  stirred  again  at  his  heart; 
the  quick,  sudden  agony  of  the  discovery  of  her  falsehood  had 
thi'obbed  again,  even  after  these  years.  It  was  so  strange 
— his  standing  here  on  one  side ;  on  the  other  a  vacant  space,  a 
voiceless  air,  a  darkness  where  the  light  of  her  eyes  ought  to 
have  been.     That  night  was  one  not  easily  to  be  forgotten. 

But  now,  seven  years  later,  all  that  was  over  for  tlie  most 
part;  and  he  sought  out  a  bit  of  rock  which  ali'orded  him  a 
kind  of  seat,  and  sat  down  and  listened  to  the  monotonous 
gurgling  and  rushing  of  the  Avater.  He  was  scarcely  sorry 
now  that  all  tliat  had  happened  in  the  olden  time.  It  was  a 
kind  of  pretty  picture  mostly.  Or  rather  it  was  a  kind  of  well 
of  romance  and  sentiment  that  he  could  dip  into,  wbcn  be 
pleased,  for  literary  purpo.ses.  Nay,  to  tell  the  truth,  bad  not 
this  very  journey  been  partly  undertaken  with  some  such  pur- 
pose ?  It  was  like  renewing  one's  youth  to  get  into  tbis  realm 
of  imagination  again.     That  may  have  been  tlie  moi-al  (if  Iiis 


408  SHANDON  BELLS. 

remarks  to  Master  Frank  about  the  increasing  difficulty  of 
linding  out  where  the  fairies  were. 

And  yet,  while  he  was  thus  convincing  himself  that  he  was 
a  highly  matter-of-fact  person,  and  striving  to  regard  that  epi- 
sode in  his  youthful  life  as  something  apart  from  him,  and  in- 
clined to  wonder  what  influence  on  his  writing  these  occur- 
rences and  despairs  and  all  the  rest  of  it  may  have  had,  some 
foolish  fondness  for  the  by-gone  days  stole  over  him,  and  he 
would  have  been  glad  to  know  that  Kitty  was  well,  and  look- 
ing pretty,  and  enjoying  content.  He  had  heard  of  her  once 
or  twice,  but  in  the  vaguest  way.  He  did  not  know  where 
she  was  living  now.  And  indeed  the  only  regret  that  possess- 
ed him  at  this  moment  was  about  the  final  portion  of  that  vow 
that  he  and  she  had  taken  together.  Why  should  there  have 
been  any  hatred  or  revenge  in  these  promises  made  by  two 
young  people  who  could  know  so  little  of  what  was  before 
them  ?  Kitty  herself  had  begged  of  him  to  make  it  a  love 
night.  He  remembered  the  imploring  look  of  her  eyes,  the 
very  tone  of  her  voice  (and  how  sweet  and  soft  and  musical 
that  was !).  "  Oh,  Willie,  not  that, "  she  had  said ;  " Ze^  this  he 
a  love  night  P''  Did  he  wish  '^  grief  to  be  a  guest  in  her  house, 
and  sorrow  to  dwell  in  her  hoxise  forever  ?"     Surely  not. 

Kitty  had  made  his  life  very  beautiful  for  a  time.  Suppos- 
ing that  he  had  never  met  her  at  all — in  these  early  years  ? 
Could  he  ever  have  understood  quite  so  well  that  nameless 
witchery  that  makes  so  much  of  the  wonder  and  joy  of  human 
existence,  and  is  the  cause  of  so  much  of  its  misery  ?  Could  he 
have  known  quite  so  intimately  what  all  the  poets  have  been 
talking  about,  since  ever  Helen  came  to  Ilion's  towers,  with 
"her  young  eyes  still  wounding  where  they  looked"  ?  He 
never  would  have  known  how  keen  the  blue  of  the  speedwell 
was,  had  not  she  and  he  together  found  it  on  those  far  uplands 
that  now  seemed  to  him  as  if  they  must  have  been  very  near 
the  sky,  so  clear  and  vivid  was  the  light  over  them.  Poor 
Kitty !  Did  she  ever  sing  now  '  Then  farewell,  but  whenever 
you  welcome  the  hour'  ?  Had  she  ever  come  to  Cork  again, 
and  climbed  up  to  Audley  Place,  and  thought  of  the  old  days  ? 
There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  have  made  such  a  pil- 
grimage; her  husband  was  well  off;  Kitty  would  have  a  maid 
of  her  own  now;  and  she  used  rather  to  like  travelling  about. 


AT  INISHEEN.  409 

The  night  was  just  as  still  as  that  on  which  he  and  Kitty- 
had  come  there;  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirring  the 
bushes  overhead;  the  only  sound  Avas  the  prattling  of  the 
streamlet  in  the  silence. 

"  It  sounds  like  laughing,''  he  was  thinking.  "  Pei'haps  it 
has  listened  to  all  the  nonsense  that  has  been  talked  by  the 
different  lovers  who  have  come  here;  and  it  may  have  under- 
stood all  the  time,  and  gone  on  chuckling.  It  does  sound  as  if 
it  was  laughing.  To  think  of  all  the  secrets  it  has  heard ;  and 
the  vows ;  and  never  a  word  of  warning  as  to  what  it  knew  of 
the  results.  Is  it  malicious,  or  only  sardonic — that  chuckling 
down  there  ?  But  it  is  better  to  make  a  joke  of  it.  Every- 
thing gets  laughed  away  in  time." 

All  that  by-gone  period  seemed  far  away,  and  beautiful  in  a 
fashion,  now  that  the  pain  of  parting  with  it  was  over.  It  had 
enriched  his  life;  there  were  innumerable  pictures  he  could 
conjure  up— always  with  Kitty  smiling  and  pleasant  as  the 
central  figure;  perhaps,  too,  it  had  given  him  a  key  to  unlock 
some  of  the  secrets  and  mysteries  of  existence.  Was  there 
any  need  to  think  harshly  of  poor  Kitty,  or  to  speak  of  betray- 
al or  falsehood  ?  We  do  not  quarrel  with  the  dead.  She  was 
as  one  dead  to  him ;  and  the  memory  of  her  was  not  tragic,  or 
even  pathetic,  but  rather  pretty,  with  a  vague  and  poetical 
charm  around  it.  It  had  been  pathetic  and  tragic  enough,  and 
darkened  with  teri'or  and  pain  and  the  wrestlings  of  despair ;  but 
now,  when  he  thought  of  her,  he  saw  a  laughing  and  pleasant 
Kitty,  rather  inclined  to  be  impertinent,  and  wandering  care- 
lessly in  sweet  woodland  ways.  It  was  never  for  Kitty  to  rise 
to  the  level  of  this  other  and  beautiful  nature  that  he  knew; 
that  was  linked  with  his;  that  provoked  his  wonder  and  ad- 
miration the  further  that  he  saw  of  its  nobleness  and  simplici- 
ty. No;  Kitty  was  .a  charming  little  coquette;  tender  in  a 
way;  not  without  her  good  points;  and  a  very  fitting  heroine 
for  love  verses  in  the  Cork  Chronicle. 

And  yet — and  yet  there  was  a  kind  of  tromulousncss  about 
those  pictures  that  rose  before  him;  he  could  not  quite  coldly 
regard  them,  and  ticket  off  their  literary  value ;  sometimes  a 
trace  of  the  nameless  fascination  and  glamour  of  youth  came 
wandering  down  thi'ough  the  years — a  memory  of  somothiiig 
that  he  had  seen  in  Kitty's  eyes.     Was  it  the  night  in  tlio 

18 


410  SHANDON  BELLS, 

South  Mall,  the  streets  all  swimming  with  mud  and  rain,  the 
gas  lamias  shining  golden  on  the  pavements,  these  two  under 
one  umbrella,  and  Kitty  suddenly  turning  her  face  to  him? 
Or  was  it  the  Sunday  morning  up  by  the  barracks,  a  spring 
morning,  with  the  rooks  cawing,  and  the  air  sweet,  and  Kitty, 
not  knowing  he  was  there,  and  going  by  him,  and  then  raising 
the  tear-fllled  eyes  with  astonishment  and  a  quick  glad  light 
of  love  ?  Kitty  had  pretty  eyes  in  that  olden  time,  and  a  pret- 
ty voice  too,  whether  she  was  laughing,  or  singing  about  the 
Bells  of  Shandon,  or  only  teasing  poor  old  Miss  Patience. 

He  rose.  To  look  over  one's  life  in  this  way,  however  sat- 
isfied one  may  be  with  the  existing  result,  is  a  sad  kind  of 
thing;  and  the  stream  down  there  in  the  semi-darkness  seem- 
ed no  longer  chuckling  and  laughing  at  the  follies  and  dreams 
of  youth,  but  rather  saying  something  of  a  farewell  as  it  hur- 
ried away  to  the  sea.  ^^ Fareuiell— farewell.''^  So  lives  pass 
to  the  unknown,  and  are  forgotten. 

He  laid  hold  of  one  of  the  bushes,  and  clambered  up  into 
the  moonlight  again,  and  crossed  the  open  space  to  the  wall ; 
then  for  a  second  he  turned  and  glanced  up  and  down  the 
little  valley  that  lay  there  so  white  and  still.  He  was  glad  it 
had  chanced  to  be  so  beautiful  a  night.  This  was  a  peaceful 
picture  that  he  would  carry  away  in  his  memory.  In  by-gone 
years  he  had  looked  forward  to  a  solitary  keeping  of  his  tryst 
with  a  shuddering  dread ;  but  what  was  there  to  dread  about 
it  ?  It  was  a  pretty  place,  and  he  had  awakened  some  recollec- 
tions that  had  a  sort  of  half-pathetic  poetic  fancy  about  them. 
That  was  all.  He  wished  he  could  jDaint  the  glen  as  it  looked 
now ;  but  he  thought  it  would  be  difficult  to  convey  the  sense 
of  solitude  and  remoteness  that  the  perfect  silence  produced. 

He  mounted  the  wall,  and  leaped  down  into  the  road. 

"Well,  Master  Frank,"  said  he,  lightly,  "I  am  sorry  to 
have  kept  you  waiting  so  long.  I  almost  think  you'll  want 
some  supper  when  you  get  back." 

But  he  found  the  boy  standing  up  in  the  carriage,  and  look- 
ing wonderingly  along  the  road  behind  them. 

"Papa,"  said  he,  with  an  expression  almost  of  alarm  on  his 
face,  "did  you  see  her  ?     Did  you  see  the  lady  ?" 

Fitzgerald  stopped  for  a  moment :  he  was  just  about  enter- 
ing the  carriage. 


AT  INISHEEN.  411 

"  What  lady  ?"  he  said,  in  a  perfectly  calm  voice. 

"Didn't  you  see  her  ?  A  lady  in  mourning,"  the  boy  said; 
and  now  he  seemed  to  be  more  re-assured.  "I  don't  know 
who  she  is.  I  don't  know  her;  but  she  came  up  and  spoke 
to  me." 

His  father  regarded  him,  apparently  unable  to  say  anything, 
his  hand  still  grasping  the  door  of  the  carriage. 

"She  said,  'Is  your  name  Willie?'  I  said,  'No;  my  name 
is  Frank.'  Then  she  said,  'But  it  is  Frank  Fitzgerald,  is  it 
not?'  I  said,  'Yes.'  Then  she  said,  'Will  you  let  me  kiss 
you  ?'  And  she  was  crying  when  she  lifted  her  veil.  And 
then  she  went  away  along  the  road  back  there." 

Fitzgerald  glanced  along  the  road ;  there  was  no  one  visible. 
Then,  with  every  appearance  of  composure,  he  stepped  into  the 
carriage,  shut  the  door,  and  said,  briefly, 

"Home,  Murtough." 

"  Papa,"  said  the  boy  presently,  "who  was  she  ?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?     Don't  bother  me — not  at  present." 

There  was  a  strange  look  on  his  face  as  they  drove  on  in 
silence.  Frank  remembered  his  mother's  injunctions;  when 
his  father  seemed  disinclined  for  talking  he  could  keep  his 
mouth  shut.  And  indeed  they  were  near  to  Inisheen  before 
Fitzgerald  again  spoke. 

"Don't  you  see,  Frankie,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "it  is  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  ?  Of  course  there  are  plenty 
of  visitors  always  coming  down  from  Cork  to  the  sea-side — to 
the  villas  I  showed  you;  and  on  such  a  beautiful  night  why 
should  not  any  one  go  out  for  a  walk  ?  Or  the  lady  who 
spoke  to  you  may  belong  to  some  house  in  the  neighborhood ; 
there  is  a  little  village,  Carrigha,  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  further  on.  Why,  it's  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world. 
It  is  just  tlie  night  for  any  one  to  come  out  for  a  stroll.  But 
I  am  beginning  to  doubt  wliether  there  was  any  sucli  person. 
You  were  thinking  of  the  fairies,  Frankie ;  wasn't  tliat  it  ?" 

"  Murtough  saw  her,  papa." 

"  Oh,  well ;  a  visitor  in  the  neighborhood,  no  doubt,"  he  said, 
absently. 

"  But  how  did  she  know  my  name  ?"  said  the  boy,  still  won- 
dering. 

"That's  what  she  didn't  know,"  said  his  father,  though  he 


412  SHANDON  BELLS. 

seemed  to  be  talking  about  one  thing  and  thinking  about  an- 
other. "  As  for  guessing  at  Fitzgerald,  that  is  nothing.  It  is 
simple  to  make  a  guess  like  that.  Every  one  about  here  is  a 
Fitzgerald  or  a  McCarthy.  That  is  nothing.  No  doubt  she 
belongs  to  Carrigha.     What  was  she  like,  did  you  notice  ?" 

He  spoke  with  indifference,  but  did  not  look  at  the  boy. 

"N — no,"  the  small  lad  said,  doubtfully,  "for  she  was  cry- 
ing, and — and  I  was  frightened." 

"But  she  kissed  you  ?" 

"Oh  yes." 

His  father  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"  Pei'haps  the  lady  has  lost  a  little  boy  of  about  your  age," 
he  said  by-and-by. 

"Perhaps  that  is  it,"  Master  Frank  said,  thoughtfully,  "for 
she  was  dressed  all  in  black." 

Then  they  rattled  through  the  streets  of  the  little  town,  and 
drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

"Now,  Master  Frank,"  said  his  father,  when  they  were  both 
together  in  the  sitting-room,  "you  must  be  up  eai*ly  to-mor- 
row, for  we  have  to  drive  all  the  way  to  Cappoquin,  and  we 
ought  to  be  there  as  soon  as  Mr.  Ross." 

"To-morrow ?  So  soon  as  that  ?  I  would  like  to  have  staid 
some  days  at  Inisheen,  papa,"  said  Master  Frank,  wistfully. 

"Why?" 

"To  see  all  the  places  you  have  told  me  about.  I  would 
like  to  have  seen  the  cabin  where  Jerry  the  tailor's  hawks  are, 
and — and  the  place  where  the  bull  went  into  the  bog;  and 
mamma  said  I  was  to  be  sure  to  cut  her  a  piece  off  the  haw- 
thorn-tree." 

' '  What  hawthorn-tree  ?" 

' '  The  one  you  used  to  climb  up ;  and  the  branches  spread 
out  at  the  top ;  and  you  used  to  have  a  seat  there,  and  a  book, 
and  no  one  could  see  you — " 

"Do  you  know.  Master  Frank,  that  cutting  memorial  bits 
off  trees  and  carving  your  name  on  window  -  shutters  are 
amongst  the  most  heinous  of  crimes?  And  it  would  be  no 
use  your  remaining  in  Inisheen,  and  trying  to  see  all  these 
places,  for  you  can't  get  about  easily  at  present,  poor  chap. 
No;  some  other  time  we  will  have  a  longer  stay  here;  and 
perhaps  we  will  come  over  in  the  winter,  and  then  you  might 


AT   INISHEEN.  413 

go  out  with  me  for  a  night  after  the  wild-duck :  wouldn't  that 
be  fine  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  papa." 

"And  meanwhile  we  must  get  away  at  once  from  Inisheen, 
so  as  not  to  keep  Mr.  Ross  waiting  at  Cappoquin  or  Lisniore. 
When  I  was  at  your  age  I  could  easily  get  ready  to  start  by 
seven." 

"  Do  you  mean  seven  to-morx"ow  morning,  papa?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.     I  will  be  ready  by  seven." 

And  still  he  lingered  about  the  room,  without  saying  good- 
night. 

"  Papa,"  said  he  at  length,  "when  I  told  you  about  the  lady, 
why  did  your  face  turn  so  white  V 

His  father  was  sitting  at  the  fire,  staring  into  it,  and  did  not 
hear. 

"Come  and  say  good-night,  my  lad,"  he  said  presently, 
"and  I  will  call  you  at  half  past  six  if  you  are  not  up.  You 
are  sure  you  won't  have  any  supper  ?    Very  well,  good-night." 

"  But  I  was  asking  you,  papa — " 

"Asking  me  what  ?" 

"Why  did  your  face  turn  so  white,  when  you  were  in  the 
road,  and  I  told  you  I  had  seen  the  lady  ?" 

"Nonsense — nonsense!  Your  head  has  got  filled  with  fan- 
cies to-night,  my  lad — you  were  too  close  to  Elfinland,  per- 
haps.    Good-night;  and  don't  dream  of  Don  Fierna." 

"Good-night,  papa." 

The  next  morning  was  again  fine;  and  they  had  every 
pi'ospect  of  a  beautiful  drive  along  the  banks  of  the  richly 
wooded  river.  And  wlien  Master  Frank,  seated  in  the  lan- 
dau, and  having  his  sprained  ankle  carefully  propped  and 
cushioned,  understood  that  he  was  to  see  something  more  of 
the  Blackwater,  he  almost  forgot  his  disappointment  over 
missing  the  various  i^laccs  at  Inisheen  he  had  expected  to 
visit. 

"Of  course,  papa,"  said  lie,  "you'll  show  me  the  very  spot 
where  you  fell  in  and  lost  the  salmon  V 

"We  shall  go  near  there  anyway,"  said  his  father,  as  they 
started,  and  drove  away  through  the  town. 


414  SHANDON  BELLS. 

**  And  you'll  show  me  the  moor-hen's  nest,  won't  you  ?" 

"What  mooi'-hen's  nest?" — for  indeed  this  boy's  memory 
was  wonderful. 

' '  Don't  you  remember,  papa,  you  told  me  about  a  moor-hen 
that  had  got  a  bit  of  wicker-work  by  chance,  and  had  pieced  it 
into  her  nest.     I  should  like  to  see  that." 

"Bless  the  boy! — do  you  imagine  that  the  nest  is  in  exist- 
ence yet  ?  All  these  things  that  I  have  told  you  about  hap- 
pened years  and  years  ago." 

They  were  now  away  from  the  houses ;  and  he  rose  in  the 
carriage,  and  turned  to  have  a  last  look  at  the  place  they  were 
leaving.  Inisheen  looked  fair  enough  in  the  early  light. 
The  shallow  green  waters  of  the  bay,  the  boats  by  the  quays, 
the  Town  Hall  with  its  golden  cock,  and  the  terraced  hill 
with  its  gardens  were  all  shining  in  the  morning  sun ;  and  far 
beyond  the  harbor  the  pale  blue  sea  was  broken  here  and  there 
with  sharp  glints  of  white,  for  there  was  a  fresh  breeze  blow- 
ing in  from  the  south.  When  he  sat  down  again  there  was 
an  absent  look  on  his  face. 

"That  moor-hen's  nest.  Master  Frankie,"  said  he,  regarding 
the  thoughtful  eyes  of  the  boy,  "belongs  to  a  time  long  gone 
by ;  and  things  change.  Poor  lad,  that  is  a  lesson  you  will 
have  to  learn  for  yourself  some  day." 


THE  END. 


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SHORT'S  NORTH  AMERICANS  OF  ANTIQUITY.  The  North 
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ENGLISH    MEN   OF    LETTERS.      Edited    by  John   Morley. 
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Johnson.  By  L.  Stephen.  —  Gibbon.  By  J.  O.  Morison.  — 
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Newcomb,  LL.D.  With  One  Hundred  and  Twelve  Engravings,  and 
five  Miips  of  the  Stars.  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50 ;  School  Edition,  12mo, 
Cloth,  $1  30. 

PRIME'S  POTTERY  AND  PORCELAIN.  Pottery  and  Porcelain 
of  All  Times  and  Nations.  With  Tables  of  Factory  and  Artists' 
Marks,  for  the  Use  of  Collectors.  By  William  C.  Prime,  LL.D. 
Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $7  00 ;  Half 
Calf,  $9  25.      (In  a  Box.) 

CESN OLA'S  CYPRUS.  Cyprus:  its  Ancient  Cities,  Tombs,  and 
Temples.  A  Narrative  of  Researches  and  Excavations  during  Ten 
Years'  Residence  in  that  Island.  By  L.  P.  di  Cesnola.  With 
Portrait,  Maps,  and  400  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  Gilt  Tops 
and  Uncut  Edges,  $7  50. 

TENNYSON'S  COMPLETE  POEMS.  The  Poetical  Works  of  Al- 
fred Tennyson.  With  numerous  Illustrations  by  Eminent  Artists, 
and  Three  Characteristic  Portraits.  8vo,  Paper,  $1  00;  Cloth, 
$1  50. 

VAN-LENNEP'S  BIBLE  LANDS.  Bible  Lands  :  their  Modern  Cus- 
toms and  Manners  Illustrative  of  Scripture.  By  Henry  J.  Van- 
Lennep,  D.D.  350  Engravings  and  2  Colored  Maps.  8vo,  Cloth, 
$5  00 ;  Sheep,  $6  00 ;  Half  Morocco  or  Half  Calf,  $8  00. 

GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE.  12  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  |18  00; 
Sheep,  $22  80  ;   Half  Calf,  |39  00. 


Valuable  Works  for  Pullic  and  Private  Lihraries.  7 

FLAMMARIOX'S  AT5I0SPHERE.  The  Atmosphere.  Translated 
from  the  French  of  Camille  Flammariov.  With  10  Chromo- 
Lithographs  and  86  Woodcuts.  8vo,  Cloth,  $6  00;  Half  Calf, 
$8  25. 

STRICKLAND'S  (Miss)  QUEENS  OF  SCOTLAND.  Lives  of  the 
Queens  of  Scotland  and  English  Princesses  connected  with  the  Regal 
Succession  of  Great  Britain.  By  Agnes  Strickland.  8  vols., 
12mo,  Cloth,  $12  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $26  00. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  SOUTH  AFRICA.  Missionary  Travels  and  Re- 
searches in  South  Africa :  including  a  Sketch  of  Sixteen  Years'  Res- 
idence in  the  Interior  of  Africa,  and  a  Journey  from  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  to  Loanda,  on  the  West  Coast ;  thence  across  the  Con- 
tinent, down  the  River  Zambesi,  to  the  Eastern  Ocean.  By  David 
Livingstone,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.  With  Portrait,  Maps,  and  Illustra- 
tions.    8vo,  Clotli,  $4  50  ;  Sheep,  $5  00 ;   Half  Calf,  $6  75. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  ZAMBESI.  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  to  the 
Zambesi  and  its  Tributaries,  and  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Lakes 
Shirwa  and  Nyassa,  1858-1864.  By  David  and  Charles  Living- 
stone.    Illustrated.      8vo,  Cloth,  |5  00;   Sheep,  $5  50;   Half  Calf, 

$7  25. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  LAST  JOURNALS.  The  Last  Journals  of  Da- 
vid Livingstone,  in  Central  Africa,  from  1865  to  his  Death.  Con- 
tinued by  a  Narrative  of  his  Last  Moments  and  Sufferings,  obtained 
from  his  Faithful  Servants  Chuma  and  Susi.  By  Horace  Waller, 
F.R.G.S.  With  Portrait,  Maps,  and  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00; 
Sheep,  $5  50  ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25.  Cheap  Popular  Edition,  8vo,  Cloth, 
with  Map  and  Illustrations,  $2  50. 

BLAHvIE'S  LIFE  OF  DAVID  LIVINGSTONE.  Dr.  Livingstone: 
Memoii-  of  his  Personal  Life,  fiom  his  Un])ublishcd  Journals  and 
Correspondence.  By  W.  G.  Blaikie,  D.D.,  LL.D.  With  Portrait 
and  Map.     8vo,  Cloth,  $2  25. 

SHAKSPEARE.  The  Dramatic  Works  of  Siiaksp-are.  With  Cor- 
rections and  Notes.  Engravings.  G  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00.  2 
vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00:  Sheep,  $5  00.  In  one  vol.,  8vo,  Sheep, 
$4  00. 

BAKER'S  IS.MAILL\.  Ismnilia  :  a  Narrative  of  the  Expedition  to 
Central  Africa  for  the  Suppression  of  the  Slave-trade,  organized  by 
Ismiiil,  Kiicdivc  of  Egypt.  Hy  Sir  Samuel  White  Hakicu,  Pusha, 
F.R.S.,  F.R.G.S.  With  Maps,  Portraits,  and  Illustrations.  8vo, 
Cloth,  $5  00;   Half  Calf,  .*7  25. 


8  Valuable  Works  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries. 

NORDHOFF'S  COMMUNISTIC  SOCIETIES  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES.  The  Communistic  Societies  of  the  United  States,  from 
Personal  Visit  and  Observation  ;  including  Detailed  Accounts  of  the 
Economists,  Zoarites,  Shakers,  the  Amana,  Oneida,  Bethel,  Aurora, 
Icarian,  and  other  existing  Societies.  With  Particulars  of  their  Re- 
ligious Creeds  and  Practices,  their  Social  Theories  and  Life,  Num- 
bers, Industries,  and  Present  Condition.  By  Charles  Nordhoff. 
Illustrations.     8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

NORDHOFF'S  CALIFORNIA.  California:  for  Health,  Pleasure, 
and  Residence.  A  Book  for  Travellers  and  Settlers.  New  Edition, 
thoroughly  revised.  By  Charles  Nordhoff.  With  Maps  and  Il- 
lustrations.    8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

GRIFFIS'S  JAPAN.  The  Mikado's  Empire:  Book  I.  History  of 
Japan,  from  660  B.C.  to  1872  A.D.  Book  II.  Personal  Experiences, 
Observations,  and  Studies  in  Japan,  1870-1874.  By  W.  E.  Gkiffis. 
Copiously  Illustrated.     Bvo,  Cloth,  $4  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $6  25, 

SMILES'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS.  The  Huguenots: 
their  Settlements,  Churches,  and  Industries  in  England  and  Ireland. 
By  Samuel  Smiles.  With  an  Appendix  relating  to  the  Huguenots 
*in  America.     Crown,  Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

SMILES'S  HUGUENOTS  AFTER  THE  REVOCATION.  The  Hu- 
guenots in  France  after  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes ;  with 
a  Visit  to  the  Country  of  the  Vaudois.  By  Samuel  Smiles.  Crown 
Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

SMILES'S  LIFE  OF  THE  STEPHENSONS.  The  Life  of  George 
Stephenson,  and  of  his  Son,  Robert  Stephenson ;  comprising,  also,  a 
History  of  the  Invention  and  Introduction  of  the  Railway  Locomo- 
tive.    By  Samuel  Smiles.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

KAWLINSON'S  MANUAL  OF  ANCIENT  HISTORY.  A  Manual 
of  Ancient  History,  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Fall  of  the  West- 
ern Empire.  Comprising  the  History  of  Chaldica,  Assyria,  Media, 
Babylonia,  Lydia,  Phoenicia,  Syria,  Judaea,  Egypt,  Carthage,  Persia, 
Greece,  Macedonia,  Parthia,  and  Rome.  By  George  Rawlinson, 
M.A.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

SCHWEINFURTH'S  HEART  OF  AFRICA.  The  Heart  of  Africa. 
Three  Years'  Travels  and  Adventures  in  the  Unexplored  Regions  of 
the  Centre  of  Africa  —  from  1868  to  1871.  By  Georg  Schwein- 
furth.  Translated  by  Ellen  E.  Frewer.  With  an  Introduction 
by  W.  WiNWOOD  Reade.     Illustrated.     2  vols.,  Svo,  Cloth,  $8  00. 


Valuaile  Works  for  Piiblic  and  Private  Libraries.  9 

SCHLIEM ANN'S  ILIOS.  Ilios,  the  City  and  Country  of  the  Trojans. 
A  Narrative  of  the  Most  Recent  Discoveries  and  Researches  made 
on  tlie  Plain  of  Troy.  By  Dr.  Henry  Schliemann.  Maps,  Plans, 
and  Illustrations.  Imperial  8vo,  Illuminated  Cloth,  $12  00;  Half 
Morocco,  $15  00. 

ALISON'S  HISTORY  OF  EUROPE.  First  Series  :  From  the  Com- 
mencement of  the  French  Revolution,  in  1789,  to  the  Restoration 
of  the  Bourbons,  in  1815.  [In  addition  to  the  Notes  on  Chapter 
LXXVI.,  which  correct  the  errors  of  the  original  work  concerning 
the  United  States,  a  copious  Analytical  Index  has  been  appended  to 
this  American  Edition.]  Second  Series  :  From  the  Fall  of  Napo- 
leon, in  1815,  to  the  Accession  of  Louis  Napoleon,  in  1852.  8  vols., 
8vo,  Cloth,  $16  00 ;  Sheep,  $20  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $34  00. 

NORTON'S  STLT)IES  OF  CHURCH-BUILDING.  Historical  Stud- 
ies of  Church-Building  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Venice,  Siena,  Flor- 
ence.    By  Charles  Euot  Norton.     8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON.  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.,  in- 
cluding a  Journal  of  a  Tour  to  the  Hebrides.  By  James  Boswell. 
Edited  by  J.  W.  Croker,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.  With  a  Portrait  of  Bos- 
well.    2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00;  Sheep,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $8  50. 

ADDISON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Josepli  Addi- 
son, embracing  the  whole  of  the  Spectator.  3  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth, 
$G  00;   Sheep,  $7  50;  Half  Calf,  $12  75. 

OUTLINES  OF  ANCIENT  HISTORY.  From  the  Earliest  Times 
to  the  Fall  of  the  Western  Roman  Empire,  A.D.  476.  Embracing 
the  Egyptians,  Chalda;ans,  Assyrians,  Babylonians,  Hebrews,  Phoeni- 
cians, Medes,  Persians,  Greeks,  and  Romans.  Designed  for  Private 
Reading  and  as  a  Manual  of  Instruction.  By  P.  V.  N.  Mvers,  A.M., 
President  of  Farmers'  College,  Ohio.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

JOHNSON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Samuel  John- 
son, LL.D.  With  an  Essay  on  his  Life  and  Genius,  by  A.  MuRi'UV. 
2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00 ;  Sheep,  $5  00  ;   Half  Calf,  $8  50. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  "CHALLENGER."  The  Atlantic:  an 
Account  of  the  General  Results  of  the  Voyage  during  1873,  and  the 
Early  Part  of  187G.  By  Sir  Wyvim.k  Thomson,  K.C.B.,  F.R.S. 
Illustrated.      2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

BROUGHAM'S  AUTOBIOGRAHPY.  Life  and  Times  of  Hniry, 
Lord  Brougham.     Written  by  Himself.     3  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 


10  Valualle  Works  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries, 

BLUNT'S  BEDOUIN  TRIBES  OF  THE  EUPHRATES.  Bedouin 
Tribes  of  the  Euphrates.  By  Ladt  Anne  Blunt.  Edited,  with 
a  Preface  and  some  Account  of  the  Arabs  and  their  Horses,  by 
W.  S.  B.      Map  and  Sketches  by  the  Author.     8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

THOMPSON'S  PAPACY  AND  THE  CIVIL  POWER.  The  Pa- 
pacy and  the  Civil  Power.  By  the  Hon.  R.  W.  Thompson.  Crown 
8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

ENGLISH  CORRESPONDENCE.  Four  Centuries  of  English  Let- 
ters. Selections  from  the  Correspondence  of  One  Hundred  and 
Fifty  Writers  from  the  Period  of  the  Paston  Letters  to  the  Present 
Day.     Edited  by  W.  Baftiste  Scoones.      12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  SCOTLAND :  From  the  Eariiest 
to  the  Present  Time.  Comprising  Characteristic  Selections  from 
the  Works  of  the  more  Noteworthy  Scottish  Poets,  with  Biographi- 
cal and  Critical  Notices.  By  James  Grant  Wilson.  With  Por- 
traits on  Steel.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $10  00;  Sheep,  $12  00;  Half 
Calf,  $14  50;  Full  Morocco,  $18  00. 

THE  STUDENT'S  SERIES.  Maps  and  Hlustrations.  12mo,  Cloth  : 
France. — Gibbon. — Greece. — Rome  (by  Liddell). — Old  Tes- 
tament History. — New  Testament  History. — Strickland's 
Queens  of  England  (Abridged). — Ancient  History  of  the  East. 
— Hallam's  Middle  Ages. — Hallam's  Constitutional  History 
of  England.  —  Lyell's  Elements  of  Geology.  —  Merivale's 
General  History  of  Rome. — Cox's  General  History  of  Greece. 
— Classical  Dictionary.     $1  25  per  volume. 

Lewis's   History  of   Germany. — Ecclesiastical   History. — 
Hume's  England.     $1  50  per  volume. 

BOURNES  LOCKE.  The  Life  of  John  Locke.  By  H.  R.  Fox 
Bourne.      2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $5  00. 

SKEAT'S  ETYMOLOGICAL  DICTIONARY.  A  Concise  Etymo- 
logical Dictionary  of  the  English  Language.  By  the  Rev.  Walter 
W.  Skeat,  M.A.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25.  Uniform  with  "  The  Stu- 
dent's Senes." 

DARWIN'S  VOYAGE  OF  A  NATURALIST.  Voyage  of  a  Natu- 
ralist. Journal  of  Researches  into  the  Natural  History  and  Geology 
of  the  Countries  Visited  during  the  Voyage  of  H.M.S.  Beagle  round 
the  World.     By  Charles  Darm'in.      2  vols,  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

CAMERON'S  ACROSS  AFRICA.  Across  Africa.  By  Verney  Lov- 
ETT  Cameron.     Map  and  Illustrations.     8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 


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